Poached Eggs and Cigarettes
by Percentile
Summary: "With all due respect, Mr. Tucker, it's not a big ask. I'm not asking him to make macarons, I'm not asking him to make a soufflé I'm not even asking him to make hollandaise. I just want him to poach an egg. Any idiot can poach an egg."
1. Worry and Disorder

A/N (at the start this time oh yes) – This story, this might be weird, I think. I'm not sure. It's multichaptered, and from Craig's POV. It might be bad. I'm not used to Creek, but I give anything a go, so I'll give it a go. I just hope it'll not be a total wham-flop OOC failure. Also, I'm in Uni again, so updates might be a bit schizophrenic. Neyway, hullo again. I hope you enjoy.

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><p>"Just… Just make me a poached egg. Just make me a poached egg, and we'll say he did a study on the different cooking processes associated with eggs. He's already made an omelette, he's boiled one, he's scrambled one, so just poach one. Poach me an egg, and I'll pass you."<p>

I crossed my arms, pressing my hands under my armpits, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "You want him to poach an egg?"

"With all due respect, Mr. Tucker, it's not a big ask. I'm not asking him to make macarons, I'm not asking him to make a soufflé, I'm not even asking him to make hollandaise. I just want him to poach an egg. Any idiot can poach an egg. It's really not that hard. Hot water, put in the egg. End of."

I intensified the pressure I was putting on my hands, squeezing my arms against my chest, desperately suppressing the urge I had to flip her off. She'd said it in such a probing way, forced accents hiding a vicious meaning: it's _not_ that _ha-ard_. She was irritating, she was really fucking irritating, her stupid yellow hair, her stupid ugly roots, her stupid little bun, her irritating, dough-like face. I pretty much had a birds eye view of her, he was taking her in from a downwards angle. Shapeless and lumpy, dim with a mean streak. She was nothing but a glorified housewife who thought she was better then all the other housewives just because she had a shitty degree in teaching housewifery. I just wanted to kick her or something. "Tweek isn't just any old idiot, you know he isn't just any old idiot. Even you must have noticed he isn't just any old idiot. He's not an idiot. And he can't poach an egg."

Besides me Tweek began to shiver slightly, latching his arm across his chest, counting in his head. His eyes were fixed on the dirty, flour coated worktop next to him, the dirty, stained stove and the greasy white oven. He was trying, and failing, to comfort himself, to escape from himself, his corporal form, to leave this room, this conversation, this school, to leave it all behind. He was panicking, and we were talking about him like he wasn't even there. Like he was some dog overdue for the vet. He didn't even flinch. I guess he was used to it by now. Teachers, councillors, therapists, his parents. Everyone did it. It was like he was a child or something.

I frowned, glaring slightly. "Can't he just make scrambled eggs again? Add some chives or whatever? Make them in different flavours?"

"No, Mr. Tucker. He's already proven he can scramble them. He's good at scrambling them. I need him to poach me one."

"What about if he boils one again, makes a bowl of cereal, some toast, adds and apple, and then serves it with a cup of coffee? You could say he did a study on breakfasts? You could say he made a lovely balanced breakfast."

"Making a bowl of cereal doesn't count as _cooking_, Mr. Tucker. Making cereal is just making _cereal_. It's _assembling_. For me to pass him, he's actually got to do something that indicates a minor level of cookery _skill_, you see?"

I groaned, clamping my arms down on my hands so hard my fingers began to go numb. "Can't… Fuck, can't you just make an exception this time? Can't you just help us out or something?"

"I _am_ helping you out. I'm telling you what he needs to do to pass, Mr. Tucker."

"That's not what I _mean_, Ms. Cregg."

She frowned, screwing up her ruddy face and crossing her arms. She was trying to mirror my stance, that much was clear. She couldn't quite manage it. Her limbs were too short, her arms to stumpy, she couldn't quite cross them across her chest, not properly, not in the easy way I could.

"Are you suggesting I _lie_, Craig?"

"Not _lie_, no. Embellish maybe, make an exception, _help us out_, you know? Maybe, maybe let me help him out or something, let me offer him a hand. Let me crack the eggs for him, guide him, you know?"

She pursed her lips, smudging her unflatteringly orange lipstick. "That's against the codes, Mr. Tucker, it's against _all_ the _rules_."

I rolled my tongue, swallowing the urge I had to tell her where she could stick her fucking rules. "He needs these _credits_, Ms. Cregg. He needs these credits or they'll hold him _back_."

"That is not my _problem, _Mr. Tucker."

"Perhaps you could-"

"That is _not_ my _problem_, Mr. Tucker."

I glared at her. My hand worming itself free, forcing its way out from under my arm. Grunting slightly, spitting out a vicious curse, I swiped my arm through the air, signalling we were done. She tried calling after us, she was indignant, enraged, face flushed as she threatening to send me to the principle, or to detention, or to somewhere I'd already been too many times before. I just ignored her, clutching Tweek's arm tighter, pulling him out the classroom, pulling him out the door.

Swearing bitterly to myself, I paced down the corridor, pulling Tweek behind me, pushing through fire doors, past our home room, round corners, down stairways. All the time pulling Tweek behind me.

The halls were pretty much empty. It was lunch, everyone was already in the cafeteria, or in the library, or off school site. Wherever. Next to me Tweek was panicking, he was speaking too fast, to pressured, shaking, starting, worry and disorder. Eyes bright and voice pitched, he was skirting dangerously close to something I didn't want to deal with. Not today, not now.

"Dude." I cut him off, speaking over my shoulder, continuing to pace. I wasn't sure what he was trying to say, I couldn't distinguish the exact syntax of his panic, but I understood the overall jist. "You're not going to get held back just because you failed Food Tech. They can't _do_ that. That's just _retarded_. No-one cares about Food Tech. Fuck, you don't need to know how to fucking _cook_. I mean, you're hardly fucking _Bebe_; I'm pretty sure there's going to be more to _your_ life then the thrilling job of stay at home _mother_."

"But they _can_, Craig. They _can_ hold me back. They can and they _will_."

I scowled slightly, looking away. He wasn't stupid. He knew were he stood. Tweek was poised on a knife-edge when it came to his academic progression. He spent his whole life poised on a knife-edge, treading just north of the "acceptable" line. One wrong foot and he'd fall too far south. It was all just a pointless balancing act.

I sighed, absently clutching at the front of my jacket. It wasn't that he was stupid, far from it, he had his cunning moments sometimes, his moments of clarity. Granted, he wasn't Ivy-league smart, but then so few of us really are. But not being smart doesn't equal stupidity. And Tweek wasn't stupid. He just wasn't studious. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't enunciate, he was jittery, unsteady, all over the place. ADD, ADHD, dyslexia, anxiety, OCD whatever, whatever name they wanted to give it, whatever disorder they could think up, he had it. He had it in bundles, bunches, all of them tied together, latched and depressing, like browning flowers.

He wasn't stupid, but he couldn't think straight. Fuck, when he panicked, he couldn't even _walk_ straight. Sometimes I'm amazed if he can remain standing vertical. Expecting him to have a steady hand under pressure was like expecting Cartman to respect Israel and condemn Hitler. Filling out an answer bubble, buttoning up a shirt, poaching an egg, yeah, they were things any idiot could do. But any idiot wasn't Tweek. Only Tweek was Tweek. And that was pretty much the problem.

"Oh _fuck_!" He started slightly, pulling away from me, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor. Stopping me with him. He was clutching onto a strand of hair, knotting his fingers into it, looping it round his hand. I blinked, watching him. A freshman was walking up behind him, some random kid I didn't know. He was staring forcefully at the ground, trying to pass unnoticed. Trying to stay as far away from us as possible. "_Jesus Christ_. What am I going to do?"

"Don't do that." I caught his wrist before he could pull, tug at the strand, harm himself. "We'll do something. Don't worry."

"I _am_ worried! Fuck Craig, _what am I going to do_? I can fail-I can't-I can't fail!"

"You're not going to fail. No one fails Food Tech. It's fucking _Food Tech_."

"_What am I going to do_?"

"Just-Just…" I trailed off, thinking. We couldn't go to the head, he'd do nothing. He was pointless, and bias, he held grudges for things that had happened and weren't my fault. Things that'd never been my fault. Chances are Al-Qaeda would show us more mercy then him. The teachers were stupid, the counsellor, the counsellor might listen, if we pleaded the case. But she was about as useless as our parents, and only a fraction as proactive.

"_We'll do something_. They're not going to hold you back. They're just _not_."

"_Craig_." He was trying to pull his hand away. I blinked glancing down. My fingers were white, my knuckles raised. I was gripping onto him too tightly, my spidery fingers were crushing his carpal bones.

I let go, dropping his wrist, pulling my hand back. He was watching me with slightly too wide eyes, still panicking, to shaking. Clearing my throat, I shook my head, pulling a face as I spun on my heels, storming silently off towards the cafeteria.


	2. Technique and Taste

"So, what're you going to do?"

Clyde was speaking with his mouth full. He'd lifted a hand clumsily up, attempting to retain some form of dignity, but he hadn't succeeded. It was still very obvious he was speaking with his mouth full. It was still very disgusting that he was speaking with his mouth full. I ignored it, exhaling slightly, Token pulled a face and wrinkled his nose. Tweek just blanked it, staring mournfully at his uneaten lunch, watching it slowly congeal on the plate in front of him, his eyes wide, upset, horrified.

"He just has to do it, I guess." I sighed, absently scrolling through a list of free, online cookery tips, my thumb leaving dirty smudges on my touchscreen. "They'll be ways to do it, we'll be able to manage it. We'll just put a shitload of vinegar in the water. Should help counteract the whole…" I hesitated slightly, clearing my throat. "The whole jittery aspect of things. We put enough vinegar in the water, that thing'll congeal up like a boss."

Clyde pulled a face, turning his head away. "Won't that just make it taste _awful_?"

"Bitch never said it had to be _palatable_, she just said he had to poach it. Technique and taste are two entirely different beasts."

Token shook his head, pursing his lips. "I don't think she's going to accept it if she can't actually _eat_ it."

"_Technique and taste are two entirely different beasts_. It's food _technology_. If anything she should give him bonus points for thinking outside the box, for using food chemistry or whatever. You know, like all those fucking celebrity chefs who keep dicking about with dry ice and foam. Cooking as a science and all that shit."

"Yeah, but their food is still actually _edible_."

I raised an eyebrow, resting my elbows on the table top. "Vinegar isn't poisonous. Sure, it's unpleasant. But then she's unpleasant. It's still edible, so she'll be able to eat it. We'll just claim he made it British-style."

"You're just giving her an excuse to fail him."

"She just said he had to poach it. That was all. She never mentioned anyone having to eat it. Just so long as he can poach it, she'll pass him. If she doesn't, well fuck, I'll just punch her."

"Why don't you use Clingfilm? That's what our chef does; he cracks the eggs into Clingfilm, ties them up, and then poaches them. It seems to work, you know."

I frowned, narrowing my eyes at my phone. "According to this bint's blog, plastic wrap can sometimes melt. Now melted plastic she probably would fail us for. Besides, it looks really fiddly. And seems to involve dipping your hands into boiling water far more then seems necessary."

Clyde nodded, swallowing his lunch with a gulp. "Yeah, you can really burn yourself with that plastic wrap method. I tired it once. Scolded my fingers trying to get the bastard egg out of the wrap. Won't be doing that again. I had blisters for a fucking _week_."

"See?" I nodded at Clyde, thanking him for the support. "Vinegar it is. Besides, I'm kinda looking forward to making that bitch eat a mouthful of acetic acid. If we use enough vinegar, we might be able to make her _gag_."

Token raised his eyebrows, going back to his lunch of quails eggs and couscous, or something equally as pretentious. "I still don't think it's a good idea. I'm pretty sure making her gag is a sure-fire way to get an 'F'."

I pursed my lips. "If he poached it, she promised she'd pass him."

"It's all pointless anyway." Tweek broke it across, rather abruptly. I blinked slightly, turning to watch him. He'd been so quiet, I'd sort of forgotten he was there. "This is all pointless. There's no way I'm ever going to be able to crack it right. There's no point worrying about how to poach it if I can't even _crack_ it, it's-it's just _pointless_. There's too much _pressure_, I'm never going to be able to do it. It's all just _pointless_." He groaned slightly, doubling over in his seat, still quivering. He'd delivered the entire speech without really breathing; he seemed to be teetering on the edge of some nervous breakdown. Quite frankly, I was amazed at how well he was keeping himself together. "They're going to hold me back because I can't even crack a _fucking_ egg. I'm not going to be able to _graduate_ because I can't even crack a _fucking_ egg." Exhaling, he buried his face in his hands, worming his fingers though his matted hair, grabbing two handfuls of sticky, lemon-yellow fuzz. I mentally braced myself, ready to stop him if he showed signs of tugging. "This _sucks_."

I frowned awkwardly, lowering my phone. He was sort of _right_. All the other egg dishes he'd made had allowed for his very messy cracking process. He never so much cracked the eggs, it was more like he jerked, yelled, and threw the eggs into a bowl, then picked out the majority of the shell. You couldn't do that with a poached egg; for a poached egg you needed the yolk _in tact_. Tweek's yolks were never in tact.

For a second we were all silent, awkwardly watching him. Then Clyde cleared his throat uncomfortably, dropping his cutlery onto his tray, leaning clumsily across the table. He wasn't graceful. He might be a lot of things, but Clyde Donovan certainly wasn't graceful. "It'll be alright Tweek, don't worry. It's not hard, you see? You just bang it against the side of the glass, just once, only once, then you put your thumbs either side of the crack, and you pull it open like a book." He spread his arms slightly, imitating the motions, smiling reassuringly. "Perfect cracked egg, every time. My mom taught me how to do them."

Across the cafeteria, Kyle Broflovski slammed his hands against the table, angrily shouting something, angrily pointing at Cartman. Marsh was attempting to soothe him, Kenny McCormick had made a quick exit, and everyone just ignored them. Same shit, different week.

Tweek just shook his head, screwing his eyes shut. Token sighed. "Clyde's right Tweek. Once you get the technique down, cracking an egg's easy. If you can make a paper hat, you can crack an egg, end of story."

I blinked, and went back to my phone. There were a ton of videos posted up on YouTube, tutorials and walkthroughs, home-shot cookery vlogs, so much shit just focusing on how to poach an egg. Frowning slightly, I clicked one of the icons, watching a pair of overly manicured hands began to fumble around with an egg. Some over-processed, middle-aged housewife was gripping at a pure white egg in a vaguely sexual manner, smiling toothily at a wobbling camera, a camera no doubt held aloft by one of her kids. I just glowered at the screen, wishing death upon her entire pathetic, picket-fence family.

Quite why anyone would ever feel the urge to videotape themselves poaching an egg was a little beyond me. I wasn't sure if it was vanity or patheticness; the need to be watched, or the fact that they honest to God didn't have anything better to do then shoot a video of themselves cooking. Maybe they were just like Stan Marsh's father, manically caught up in the world of TV cookery, deluded into believing they could be the next Delia Smith; maybe they were all that fucking bit insane. Whatever the reason, the whole affair, the whole 'watch me cook because I can' thing, it was just so, so _sad_.

Token chewed thoughtfully, swallowing his mouthful. "When do you have to poach it by anyway?"

I shrugged. "The end of term. We've got a few weeks, I guess." I forced myself to smile, reaching across and gripping Tweek's shoulder. He started slightly at my touch, but he didn't pull away. "We can teach you how to do this in a few weeks Tweek. Don't worry, it'll be a cinch."

He was watching me, quivering, his big brown eyes boring holes straight through me. He looked like a bird, like some scraggly finch on the verge of falling out the sky. "There's no way man. This is it. This is the end."

"Whatever Tweekers. Don't worry. I'll come by your house tonight and we can practice. We'll get it down. I mean, dude, if I can shoot laser beams out of my fucking eyes, I can teach you how to poach an egg. Just you watch."

The sound of Kyle yelling echoed round the cafeteria. They sat way, way across the room, right on the other side, we were separated by cheap plastic table after cheap plastic table. Meter after meter of linoleum. But Broflovski was really giving it some. I glanced up disinterestedly, watching them, my hand still clutching Tweek's shoulder. Broflovski was on his feet, pointing, yelling. Cartman had his hands held up in mock surrender, a twisted, evil look painted across his face. He was goading him, trying to egg Kyle on. Marsh was just clutching at his nose, cursing slightly. Cartman spat out something obviously vile; Clyde raised his eyebrows, whistling lowly. Kyle just shrieked in a way so hilariously similar to his mother, gripping at the edge of his tray, clutching at his plate. Before anyone could stop him, he'd hurled his half-empty plate of semi-solid macaroni cheese across the table. He nailed Cartman square in the chest. I'm pretty sure he'd been aiming for his face, but he was a pretty lousy shot when he was worked up.

Token sighed, massaging a temple. Stan was already on his feet, hurriedly pulling a very resistant Kyle towards the exit, desperate to diffuse the situation. Desperate to flee the scene of the crime.

Token just tutted, looking away. Clearing this throat, he went back to his lunch, wiping his fingers on a stray paper napkin. "Someone should really start slipping benzodiazepine into his drinking water. It might calm him the fuck down, you know?"

"Calm who the fuck down? Cartman or Broflovski?"

"Both of them, I guess. If you can get enough if it. It'd take a fucking bucket of the stuff to dose up Cartman. You'd be better off using horse tranquilisers on him."

Tweek gasped slightly, shaking, latching his arms across his chest. "Benzo doesn't really work. Not well, anyway. It just makes things foggy. I think they only prescribe it as a placebo."

"Maybe. Maybe you're just immune to it. Things tend to have a funny reaction on you anyway."

Token made some sweeping gesture, indicating he didn't really care. "Whatever. I just think someone should slip them something to calm them the fuck down. It'd make life a whole lot easier for the rest of us, you know? Not having to deal with that, week after week."

"Tell Marsh that. I'm sure he's got a little _something_ he's been _aching_ to _slip_ Broflovski for a very _long_ time, if you get what I mean."

I groaned, pulling a face. "Oh, sick Clyde. Yeah, thanks for that! I'm going to have that mental image all day now, thanks to you!"

Clyde just quirked his eyebrows at me, smugly smiling at me across the table. I just flipped him off, kicking his leg under the table. Kicking his leg hard.


	3. Firm and Forceful

"Dude, just do it slowly, _slowly_-"

Tweek started, yelped, his hand jerked, and the egg hit the counter with a sickening crunch. Shutting my eyes, I inhaled slightly, before forcing some sort of unsuccessful grimace-smile onto my face, forcing myself to fake hollow happiness and pointless optimism. The more optimistic I could pretend to be, the more likely it was Tweek would remain calm. Cursing quietly, Tweek just clenched his fists, pressing his knuckles against his face. He was shaking, not with nerves, but more with anger, sadness, frustration. He was shaking with frustration, he was frustrated because he was shaking.

"It's okay. Hey, it's okay." Reaching across him, I picked up the eggshells, scooping up the mix of yolk and albumen with a handful of paper towels. We'd been at this for an hour now, so many eggs, a roll of kitchen paper, the bin was nearly full. My patience was wearing thin. "Just take a breath and try again. Don't worry, yeah?" Tweek just nodded sadly, crossing his arms across his chest, starting mournfully at the tray of eggs. I pursed my lips slightly, frowning at him as I dumped the mess of broken egg into the bin. "Hey, just take it easy, take it easy and remember what Clyde said. Hold it firmly, one hit, only one hit, break the shell, then open it like you open a book, slow and forceful. It's okay," I swallowed somewhat forcefully "you can do this."

"Oh _man_, the _pressure_!"

"No, no. There's no pressure, it's just you and me, here alone, in this kitchen. It's just you, me and an _egg_. There's no pressure."

Actually, that last one was a lie. It wasn't just an egg, it was a tray of fucking eggs. I'd stopped off on the way back and picked up a plethora of the stupid things, row after row of stupid, uneven eggs. I'd figured this whole thing was going to need a lot of practise to get right. Still, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for all those chickens, cooped up in those cages, popping out egg after egg, unaware that their unformed offspring were so pathetically fated to end up as nothing more then a messy splatter, scrawled across the Tweak's cheap green kitchen counters.

Inhaling sharply, Tweek Tweak reached out, clutched an egg, and brought it across to the bowl. He brought it down to crack it, yelped, started, and pretty much just threw the egg inside the acrid pink bowl this time, reverting back to his original cracking technique. I forced my grimace-smile, and congratulated him for getting closer to the target, scraping the mess out of the base of the bowl, affirming my over-forced belief in him.

The next one he managed to actually crack against the side of the bowl. Granted, he missed the bowl's rim, but he did still technically hit the side. He accidentally slammed it a few inches too low, smashing it against the curve of the plastic, splattering a volatile mix of egg mess and shell across the counter, right across the bowl, and right up the length of his forearm. I bit the inside of my cheek, wiping up the mess as I desperately tried to reason with my tense patience that hey, at least he was getting closer. At least hitting the side of the bowl was closer.

The next egg however, this one he managed just to lift up, suspending it in front of his face, before seemingly changing his mind about it. For a moment he just wavered with it, before pretty much just flat out throwing it against the lino. Inhaling sharply, I bit back a curse, ramming my hands underneath my armpits. The projectile mess of egg made a fairly heartbreaking pattern across the tiles, spider webbing, splattering up the base of the Tweak's kitchen cupboards. Dimly, I felt the urge to kick something. We were back at the beginning of the whole fucking process.

"Alright, let's… Let's take five minutes."

Tweek nodded sadly, his eyes fixed on the mess he'd made. I just inhaled slightly, before stepping over the egg mess, pushing my way out the open back door. It was cold, icy and biting, and I'd left my coat inside, but I didn't care. It was always cold in South Park, it was always miserable and dark, and it was always fucking cold. After seventeen years, you tend to yet used to it. Besides, I just needed to get some air; I needed to be away, far, far away, from that stupid pink bowl, from all those fucking egg yolks, away from that stupid kitchen fucking roll before I punched something.

Exhaling, I fumbled about in my pockets, pulling out my lighter. Shielding the flame from the wind, I lit a cigarette, resting my head against the icy façade of the house as I inhaled. Tweek's dad didn't approve of smoking. It didn't really matter, I mean, him not approving of it. He didn't approve of a lot of things. I still did them. I still smoked in Tweek's room sometimes, the window open a crack, my back pressed against the wall, and no-one ever really said anything. But hey, he didn't like it, and I needed some air. I'd toe the line this time. I wouldn't smoke in his kitchen.

Besides, it was quite nice out, in a miserable, icy, sleeting sort of way. For a second I just inhaled, narrowing my eyes across Tweek Tweak's lawn. It was quiet, really, really quiet. Too quiet, almost, too quiet for South Park, anyway. It was never usually quiet here. Someone, somewhere, was always doing _something_ loud. Loud and pointless. I sighed, kicking at a small mound of snow, a pile that had been blown up against the patio. Generally quietness meant something really, really bad was about to happen. Either that, or something really, really bad was already happening.

The sun had set a couple of hours ago, everything was basked in that faint orange glow of indicative of streetlamps and porch lights. Tweek's neighbours hadn't shut their curtains yet, their entire house was lit up from the inside, glowing like a tea light in a pumpkin. You could see right into their dining room, hell, if you looked hard enough, I'm pretty sure you'd be able to see right through their fucking house. You could watch them from the bushes, watch with a pair of binoculars, watch their lives like they were putting on a show.

I suppose it didn't really matter. People were transparent in towns like this. Regardless of whether you shut your curtains or not, everyone can always see right through you: everyone always knows what you're doing. People never shut up, you can't say anything without inadvertently saying _everything_. Like some fucked up game of Chinese whispers, you can't sneeze without ending up the latest bit of gossip to be swapped over a scratched up coffee table. It's absolutely unbearable.

Narrowing my eyes, I frowned up at the sky. It was overcast and monotone, but if I watched carefully enough, occasional stars would glint their way through gaps in the clouds. After five minutes Tweek joined me, positioning himself next to me, his shoulder brushing my arm, his hands curling round a stupidly oversized mug. His eyes wide and sad. I acknowledged him with a grunt, he just cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry, you know."

I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes glued to the sky, searching between the clouds. "For what?"

"For not-not being able to… To crack the eggs."

The smoke from my cigarette, clamed firmly between my teeth, and the steam from his coffee, clutched protectively against his chest, danced above us, making patterns in the porch light. "It's not your fault Tweekers, don't worry. We'll get it down eventually. We'll just have to practice some more, I guess." I spoke it through clamped jaws, through the cigarette and muffled words.

He shrugged, fidgeting with his mug. "If you say so."

"Yep. If I say so."

We stayed outside long after we were done, my eyes glued to the sky, Tweek's gaze fixed against the ground. We stayed outside until the wind became too biting, the sleet to stinging, and the ever pressing need to crack a stupid egg became to imposing to ignore.

Exhaling, I brushed my hands off, beckoning him to follow as I pushed my way back inside the kitchen. Tweek, or someone, had cleaned up the egg from the floor, scooping the mixture into the bin, wiping the evidence away for good. I just sighed, rubbing my face with icy fingers.

"Alright Tweekers." I inhaled, trying to force my teacherly demeanour. Not that I really had a teacherly demeanour. I was far to impatient to ever be a teacher. But fuck, Tweek needed a teacher, and I was all he really had. "Let's try this again. Just remember what Clyde said, yeah? One hit, only one, against the side of the bowl, then you open it like a book, slow and forceful."

Tweek just whimpered something about pressure, shutting his eyes as he stepped away from the eggs. I just frowned, watching him.

"Don't worry, there's no pressure. They're only _eggs_, after all." Tweek just shook his head, shivering slightly. Suppressing the urge I had to roll my eyes, I bit the inside of my cheek. "Here, I'll show you."

Clearing my throat slightly, I positioned myself behind him, looming over him like some threatening undead shadow. Tweek started slightly, shaking, emitting a low, pained whine, but I ignored it, pressing on. Carefully, I placed my hands over his, fingers pressing against certain points, guiding him like a puppet, like some kind of newfangled Gamesphere controller. He was still shaking, vibrating against me like some abused puppy, but I pressed on through it. Again and again I'd guide his hands, guide them to the egg tray, to the bowl, I'd guide him to crack it against the side, and I guide him to open it like a book.

And he could do it, too. With me looming over him like this, with him shaking against me, he could do it. I'd guide him again and again, cracking egg after egg, perfect yolk, all still in tact, he could do it.

Butters once told me that you can make cheap paint with egg yolk and dye. Egg tempera, or something. Those imposing paintings of the Virgin Mary, all those halos and depictions of Christ you see scrawled across Catholicism, they were painted with egg yolk and dye. Dimly I wondered if I should call him. He could make a shit-ton of paint with all the eggs Tweek's broken. He'd probably be thankful for them.

But hey, so would Kenny McCormick. All these eggs, even the counter-bound ones now in the bin, he'd probably be thankful for them too. He could scoop them up, out of the bin, and feed his family for a fucking week if he wanted to. It'd probably make a welcome change from all those toaster waffles and Pop Tarts.

Stifling a sigh, I guided Tweek's hands to the tray again, nudged him to pick up another egg, and guided him to the bowl. I'd been slowly elevating the pressure of my fingers over his, getting into the rhythm of cracking these eggs, I'd been slowly letting him take the lead. He was pretty much doing it by himself now, my fingers just shadows over his quivering hands.

Watching carefully, I guided him to pick up another egg, my hands ghosting his as he lifted it across to the bowl. Before he had a chance to crack it, I carefully curled my fingers away, praying he'd do it on his own.

It didn't work, however. The second my fingers left his, Tweek started, yelped, and yanked his hands back, dropping the egg against the countertop.

Tweek whined something pathetic, something unimportant. I just exhaled, shutting my eyes, murmuring curses through my teeth. He could do it, he had been doing it, he could fucking _do it_. For a second I just lent forward, resting my face against him, against his wiry, sticky mess of hair. It smelt like coffee, it smelt so _badly_ of coffee, coffee, sweat, smoke, and drug store shampoo. He could do it when I was shadowing him, when my fingers were pressed against his. He'd been doing it. He could _do it_. For a minute I just inhaled him, desperately forcing my mind blank, desperately forcing myself to just focus on the hair, to stop, stop anything that wasn't Tweek's hair. No more frustration, no more eggs, no more school. No more South Park. For a minute it was just me, just me with my face pressed against Tweek Tweak's hair.

Then he jerked away from me, sudden and violent. So I stepped back from him, firm and forceful. For a second he just watched me, his eyes open, wide and apologetic. Apologising for the eggs, apologising for dropping it. Apologising for pulling away. Apologising for ruining my moment. I just shook my head, averting my gaze, turning to leave.


	4. Smoke and Ash

Things were fucked up in this town, that much I knew for sure. Inhaling forcefully, I drew in a mouthful of smoke, drawing it straight down into my lungs, twitching slightly as the heat caught the back of my throat. It was unpleasant, completely unpleasant, but it was cathartic, and calming. It wasn't the taste, not at all, these ones were pretty stale anyway. They tasted fairly foul. It wasn't so much the addiction either, I wasn't like that, I wasn't Tweek, Tweek and coffee, I wasn't the type who'd fall into the vague desperation of always looking for a unfulfilling sort of fix. I wasn't the addict sort. It was the smell, the smell and feel of smoke and ash, the way it felt to breathe it in, it reminded me of home; my home, my house, my mother, my kitchen, the scent smoke that clung sneakily around every memory, the scent of the cigarettes she tried to hide from everyone. But I could always feel it, in the air, on her clothes, laced so tightly round my stupid, dysfunctional home.

And I hated it, I hated it all, that house, those people, the shouting and the noise and the bitching and all the flipping off. But at the same time, no, I didn't. It was dysfunctional, and I knew people talked about us, and I knew how everyone saw us, but it was a functioning dysfunction. Messy on the outside, overtly Christian and crude, oxymoronic, all the swearing and the shouting, that little smack of middle-class white trash. Yeah, that's what people saw, but it was a bit like watching episodes of The Osbournes. It was dysfunction built on love. As pathetic as it sounds, as pathetic as it is, it was messy, but never wanting for love. And to me that's what cigarettes taste like; they taste like dysfunction and love. Like my mother. Like home.

Exhaling my lungful, I glanced back up at the sky, absently fidgeting the cigarette between my fingers. The town was dark, the streets deserted. It was quiet, too quiet. The sky was peppered with patchy clouds, drifting aimlessly around the stars, lightly migrating across the sky. The slight dusting of snow, the fragile flakes, seemed fairly pathetic when compared against the real, proper blizzards Colorado can blow. But then, it was nearly summer. It was very nearly summer, and it was still snowing. Only this fucking town would be fucked up enough to snow in summer.

I'd left Tweek standing in his kitchen, shaking with uncertainty and nerves and caffeine and God knows what else. He was probably still standing there, staring listlessly at the half-empty tray of eggs, wondering what the hell I was playing at. What the hell I was doing to him. I hadn't said anything to him, I hadn't tried to explain what I'd been doing, what I was thinking, why I'd just driven my face against his hair. There was nothing I could say, nothing too say, everything that was, everything that should have been said, it was too unapproachable, that darkened shadow lurking in the corner. All those things we didn't speak about. The love that dare not speak its name, or whatever the fuck they called it. It was too unapproachable, so we didn't talk about it.

But hey, it always went this way. I'd do something stupid, I'd get to close, he'd start, and I'd realise what I was doing. I'd stop myself, and then I'd just stalk away. He'd be left, confused and unsure, and then the sun would rise, and we'd never speak of it. Functioning dysfunction, functioning dysfunction at its very best.

Exhaling, I kneaded my hand across my face. I never put much steed in people. I never put much steed in myself. People are flawed, people are abusive, people are dicks. They let you down, they fucked you over, they take your birthday money and got you stranded in Peru. They left you stranded in your kitchen, staring at a tray of eggs. I'd learnt from a very early age that people weren't worth it, they were nothing more then retarded, disappointing _dicks_.

I was a dick, I knew that, it was awful of me to be doing this, doing it to Tweek. But I didn't know what to do. Usually I was fine with it, fine with Tweek, fine with our stupid little whatever that never even went anywhere. But there were times when it mounts up on me, when everything seems to get too much. When I just can handle any more awkward nothingness.

Usually I'm fine with it, fine with _nothing_, but there are times when I just want nothing to do with it, with him. Being so desperate, and so unable, unable to do anything, _everything_, I wanted to do to him, there are times when I wish I'd never even laid my eyes on him. There are times I'd wish it all away.

Occasionally, oh so occasionally, when it all gets too much, I just need a release. I'll shut my eyes, I'll grip it just right, and I'll loose myself, loose myself in thoughts of normality, of boringness, of cohesion and mental stability. Usually it's just fantasies, people who didn't exist, people who never would, lives he could have had, the guys he so stupidly fucked. Occasionally I'll think of different things, of worse things, real things. I'd think of Token, or Clyde, or Butters, sometimes, of all people. I'd think of anyone, anywhere, anything that wasn't _him_. I'd think of that blonde guy I once knew, that dude I used to hang out with, the guy who let me do his laundry. Hell, I'd even think Kyle Broflovski, Kyle Broflovski and his stupid fat arse.

And if that didn't work, I'd just take my dad's truck and drive it up to Denver. There was always somewhere open, somewhere that didn't look too hard at the botched fake ID, somewhere that didn't care. And in those places, there was always someone. Someone lurking in the shadows, the dark outlines of guys either too scared, or way to sure of themselves. There was always someone offering you the chance to forget, offering to take all the angst away, offering cheap, fleeting euphoria. There were always the bedrooms, the motels, the public restrooms, clichéd and degrading. There was always cottaging.

And then it'd be over, and I'd be left shivering, shivering against catholic shame and unidentifiable betrayal. And I'd feel horrendous, awful, like the worst human being ever. I'd feel so dirty, and so low. Because in truth, I'd never want to wish it away. I'd never not want him, only him, to be there. Even if I couldn't touch him. Even as just friends.

So I'd get up, buck myself together, and vow to do something really nice for Tweek. I'd make him a very mediocre cup of coffee; I'd agree to sit up all night, clutching a baseball bat, watching out for underwear gnomes. I'd do whatever Tweek wanted. And Tweek would thank me graciously, he'd accept the coffee, he'd watch with owl-like eyes as I perched on the end of his bed, staring avidly at the floorboards. He'd be so thankful. But behind the thanks, behind the gratitude, there was always a shadow, that awful, lurking shadow. Because Tweek knew, and I knew Tweek knew. And neither of us could ever bring themselves to talk about it, about the stupid shit I did when it was my turn to act like a retard. So we just didn't. We just kept our heads down, and carried on like normal, wading though our painful nothingness, walking on fucking eggs. Functioning dysfunction at its very worst.

Because I couldn't, no matter how much I wanted too, not with Tweek. Tweek was too… Too Tweek to do things like _that_ with. I'd probably just end up fucking him up even more, or breaking him or something. I couldn't risk doing that, pulling him down into the darker world of what humans do. I couldn't risk what would happen if I did.

I guessed that's why I liked Tweek so much. Tweek was an innocent, the skittishness, the nervousness, you had to approach him slowly, with you palms open, your hands outstretched. He had no malice to him, anything, everything he did, he did it clean and true, their was no evil in him, nothing bad, no lies. He was like an animal, but in the good way; not in the way that Marsh was like an animal, like some dumb, bounding dog, or like Broflovski was like an animal, like some cosseted, overindulged housecat. Tweek was like an animal in the good, pure way. He never did anything without a reason, without being provoked, he never did anything with malice, he never did anything underhandedly. He just _was_, and people were awful to him. But he just always _was_.

I never wanted to be one of those people who were awful to him. I couldn't risk hurting him over some stupid infatuation that wouldn't go away. I couldn't risk damaging him, not even I was that selfish. Tweek needed someone to look out for him, he needed a friend. But that was all he needed. And that was all I could ever be.

Cursing slightly, I recoiled my hand back, starting slightly. I hadn't been paying attention; my cigarette had burnt down to the filter, and caught the insides of my finger. Angry little bumps were beginning to form. I was probably going to blister. Swearing violently into the night, I sucked the burn, glowering down at the still smouldering cigarette butt, watching as the ember fought a loosing battle against the snow. I guess life's just fucked up like that. I guess I'm just fucked up like that.

* * *

><p>AN – Originally this story was just going to be a nice little fluff about poaching eggs. But the plan didn't really turn out that way. Vaguley plotless wangst ahoy, folks! Buckle up! (Be on the look out for the obligatory drunken party scene. Because everything I write seems to have that obligatory drunken party scene!)

Anyhoo, thanks for reading. Muches muches loves and thanks for reviewing, uber awesome fantastico of you, so awesome. Loves lovely candyfloss, X.


	5. Words and Empty Metaphors

We were supposed to be writing poetry or something. A sonnet, I think. I hadn't been paying attention. Next to me Cartman was counting syllables off on his fingers muttering angrily under his breath. He'd never been any good at poetry. Prose, yeah, he could write hate speeches and misinformed propaganda until the cows came home, but that was about it. As far as poetry went, the beats and rhymes, the emotions, he couldn't do it. Eric Theodore Cartman didn't have a poetic bone in his body.

Not that I was fairing much better, mind you. Poetry had never been my thing. The school made us write it, they said it was a form of relaxation therapy or something. They said it was supposed to be liberating, cathartic, a way of "releasing all those pent up teenage feelings" or some shit. They think that if we bang out a few pathetic, whiney verses once a week, we'll suddenly all be fine. Like all we need to counteract the batshit insanity of this fucked-up town is mediocre iambic pentameter and a set of rudimentary slant rhymes. They were speaking out their asses. Poetry's got too many rules, it needs too much structure and effort, too much working and re-working, too many commas and hyphens, too many pretentious words and empty metaphors. Writing poetry isn't cathartic; it doesn't soothe your feelings: writing poetry _constricts _them.

Exhaling, I tilted my head away from my blank notebook page, sprawling forwards on my desk, gazing listlessly into space. Across the room, Stan was pussying it up, furiously scrawling something pointless, his eyes glued to his notebook. Kyle was watching him with a quirked eyebrow, his own notebook resting causally on his knees as he methodically, and emotionlessly, got on with the assignment. Clyde was sitting next to them, doodling absently on the desk. Tweek was sitting next to him, huddled up on his chair. He was working through the assignment sporadically, hunched over his notebook, his caffeine wide eyes occasionally glancing up, nervously scanning the room.

Sighing, I buried my face in my arms, screwing my eyes shut. I'd been ignoring him. After what happened last night, I'd decided the best course of action was to just lie low for a few days, just ignore it, just pretend like it'd never happened. Pretend I'd never overstepped the boundaries. Pretend I'd never gone too far. I'd give it a few days, I'd ignore it, and it'd all go away. Just like it last time, just like it did all those times before.

"Ay, Tucker, wake up! Shouldn't you be _working_?"

"Fuck off, Cartman." I addressed it to the desk, my face still furrowed against my arms.

Next to me, Cartman sighed. I felt him shift in his seat, propping his elbows up on the desk. "Now that's the reason you keep _failing_, Tucker. Your attitude _sucks._"

"_You _suck."

"I mean," he ignored me, powering on with his whiney self-righteousness, "it's not that _hard_."

"That's rich, coming from _you_. You couldn't write poetry if your life depended on it."

"That's not true! My poetry is _fine_!"

"Your poetry makes the Vogon's look _romantic_."

Cartman bristled. "Fucked up teeth and a personality to match. Fuck me Tucker, you're quite the catch."

I turned to look at him, unimpressed. He was still counting the syllables off on his fingers, his piggy eyes narrowed, a slight smirk curving the corner of his lips. I just deadpanned him a look, not even bothering to lift my head off the desk.

"Fuck you? Jesus Christ, I'd sooner deep-fry my own sweetbreads and serve them to Gordon-fucking-_Ramsey_. Fuck, I wouldn't _touch_ you if you were the last living thing left on _earth_, you get me lard-tits?"

"Awh, now you see that, _that_ really hurt my feelings. Knowing the local man-whore won't give me a ride, God, how _ever_ will I live with myself!"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour Eric. And besides" I stretched slightly, lunging my gangling arms across the desk, "_no-one_ would give you a ride. You're like, completely unrideable. You're a broken bicycle."

"Ay! That's _not_ true! Fuck Tucker, at least I don't have to _pay_ for it!"

"I don't pay for it. I get it for _free_. The only reason _you_ don't pay for it is because there's not a human alive who would _sell _it to you. Hookers would rather take their chances and _starve_ then risk the inevitable death guaranteed to occur the second _you_ smother them with your massive bulk. Jesus Christ."

Cartman narrowed his eyes. I just smiled dryly up at him, my head still resting against my arms, the arms that were still sprawled against the desk. He bristled, his face flushing as he started to curse me out, started to wind himself up. He was interrupted by the bell though. Inhaling sharply, I swung my bag across my shoulder with one hand, and flipped him off with the other. Without waiting for anyone, I tossed my empty notebook on the teachers desk, and stalked unceremoniously out the room. I was going to get called out for not doing my work again, but I didn't care. It wasn't like it actually _mattered_.

Pulling a face, I forced my way through the crowded corridor, casually cutting my way through the stream of people surging towards the lunch hall, causally shoulder barging pathetic underclassmen out of my way.

Exhaling, I pushed my way out the back doors, kicking my way through the slush. McCormick was already out there, poised behind the gym, stretched out in the corner of the backway with no windows. He was lounging listlessly against the bricks, headphones plugged in, eyes shut, face tilted towards the sun. He'd been skipping class again, he always did. He thought poetry writing was fucking pointless too. Pursing my lips, I ignored him, turning my back to the weather, crouching down as I shielded my lighter from the wind.

For a while I just sat there, the slush soaking though my jeans, my back pressed against the bricks. Shutting my eyes against the sun, I tilted my head away from the wind, frowning as my smoke curled aimlessly against my chest. I had a meeting with the guidance counsellor this afternoon, I was supposed to go see her, sit with her and tell her about my pointless aims and ambitions. She was supposed to hum and nod along, lie to me, tell me I could do it, offer me brochures and pointless incorrect advice. And then we were supposed to shake hands, and smile, and act like it hadn't all just been a pointless waste of time.

Frowning slightly, I blinked, glancing next to me. Tweek was sliding down the wall, a dark thermos clutched in his hands, a worried look twisting his face.

"What were you bickering with Cartman about?"

I shrugged, watching him, shielding my eyes against the sun. "Nothing really. I think he's in love with me. He propositioned me. He got upset when I refused to sleep with him. He called me a 'catch'."

Tweek's lip quirked, but he didn't quite manage to smile. He never quite managed to smile. "You're an ass, you know that?"

I smiled wryly. "Yup."

He paused for a second, dipping his head away from the smoke, absently fidgeting with the seal on his flask. He was still shaking, but it was only just. It wasn't so much anxious quakes as simple, normal shivers. But then, considering he was sitting ankle deep in slush wearing nothing but a woefully crumpled shirt, he probably was just shivering. He had to be cold. He was always cold.

"Are… Are you going to help me again tonight?"

I pursed my lips, tapping ash onto the sleet. Dimly I wondered if I should offer him my jacket or something. Dimly I wondered if offering him my jacket was just that bit too, well, _gay_. "Help you do what?"

"Help me with the eggs?"

I sighed. "Yeah, I'll help you with the eggs. I can't stay long though."

"Why not?"

Exhaling a lungful of smoke, I glanced away from him, staring up at the sky. It was pretty clear today, only a few stray, wispy clouds were left to drift across the sky. It was still pretty cold though. It was bright, sunny, but it was still so cold.

"I'm driving up to Denver tonight."

"Oh… Right."

"Yeah."

* * *

><p>AN - Apologies this one is updating slower then usual. Work and lifestuff keeps getting in the way. Le sigh, le sigh. Hopefully once I get into the rhythm of things, it'll all pick up. Thank you thank you for reading reading. Uber super-dooper awesome loves for reviewing, so awesome and brilliantstuff loves lovely love.

And AzyumiChan, it won't be linked to the previous stories as strongly as I have before, but it won't go against them either. This one is set roughly a year before_ NOESTLWF/Carnival_, and roughly a year after _US. Route 285_ (so they're juniors). I might link little bits, and Stan and Kyle will be running about in the background, but I think this one will be pretty separate. Ah well, lovels loves candyfloss x.


	6. Bleak and Mechanic

The bell rang. I just blinked, making no effort to move. Next to me I felt Tweek twitch, pulling himself up into an awkward, unsteady, shaky little crouch as he set about gathering up all his things. Automatically I reached out a hand, hovering it just above his arm, bracing myself, ready to catch him if he overbalanced.

"Don't you have calculus now?"

I shook my head, worrying the end of my cigarette between my fingers. I was very nearly out; I made a mental note to pick up another packet tonight. "I've got a meeting with the guidance councillor."

"The bell just went."

"Yes, I'm aware. I heard it too."

Tweek was watching me, imploring me. "You're going to be late."

"I don't care."

"But you'll get in trouble."

Turning my head away from him, I took a drag. "I'm not going."

Tweek kept watching me, his eyes wide and sad, his face exhausted and disenchanted. Just like always. "She'll only make you g-go see her later. You know what she's like."

I just shrugged, shifting slightly in the sleet. We'd been sitting out here for all but an hour; my thighs were pretty fucking numb with the cold. "I don't care. It doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter."

"No Tweekers, no it doesn't. In the grand scheme of things, nothing could really matter less. It matters so little, it's actually a little sad, you know?" Exhaling, I pulled a face at him, shrugging slightly. "It's just doesn't matter."

He just exhaled, watching me, quivering, his thermos still clutched in his hands. "Are you going to ride home with me?"

"Yeah, I'll come get you after food tech. We'll go crack some more eggs."

"Do-do you want me to stay with you? You know, stay here?"

"No, don't bother." I nudged him to his feet, keeping my hand ready to buffer him if he fell. "You'd better get going. You're already going to be late."

He crossed his arms across his chest, clutching aimlessly at his shirt as he peered down at me. He was still short. Even when I was sitting down, even when he was standing above me, he was still really, really short. I guess caffeine really does stunt your growth. "I'll… I'll stay with you if you'd like. If you want some company, you know?"

I just lowered my gaze, looking away, refusing to answer. He just sighed and shrugged, shaking anxiously, before walking away. I probably should have told him to get the bus alone or something, that way I could skip out of here now and be done with the whole circus, be done with school for the day. But I'd already promised him I'd help him with the eggs. There was no point disappearing off now if it meant coming back later.

Groaning slightly, I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand. The sickly pale sky was beginning to cloud over. The thin wisps that had been drifting lazily across the sun seemed to be joining forces, morphing together into larger, more amorphous blobs. They were getting darker and darker as time passed, joining up bigger and bigger, threatening more sleet. It'd probably be another miserable night.

"What's got your panties in a bunch, Tucker? You look miserable." McCormick dropped down next to me, his hands immediately going to my jacket pocket, rooting out my cigarettes. I made a very half-hearted attempt to swat him away, but it was wholly unappreciated. Kenny was like a weasel. Once he went after something, he made damn sure he got it.

"I always look miserable."

"That's not something you should be proud of."

"I'm fine."

"And I'm on the Forbes Rich List."

"Kudos. Moving up in the world, I see."

He deadpanned me a smile, still rooting about my pocket. "Seriously, what's got you all stick-up-assed? You've got a face like thunder." He managed to fumble out a cigarette, clamping it between his jaws as he turned away from me, hiding his steal, crouching over an all but empty plastic lighter.

I just frowned at him, bringing my knees up to my chest. He'd disappeared off somewhere, not long after Tweek arrived. And now he was back. "Why do you even bother coming to school if you're going to spend all day out here? Surely it would be easier if you just didn't bother turning up at all, you know?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"No, you couldn't. I went to my classes this morning. You didn't."

"Oh, woe! Lord forbid I miss poetry class! How ever will I forgive myself for missing that important, and not at all completely _pointless_, shitfest!"

"My question still stands. Why bother coming in if all you're going to do is skip?"

Kenny pulled a face, pressing his back against the bricks. "Perhaps I like the atmosphere. This place has _heating_, you know?"

"Then why spend all your time sitting _outside_? Go haunt the library, like the rest of the losers do."

He shot me a wry look, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. "Perhaps I come here for the social scene then. You can't beat the conversation you get in this place, you know."

"Pur-lease, with friends like _yours_?"

He held up his hands in some twisted gesture, half a surrender, half a shrug. "Hey, don't make this about me Tucker. We were discussing your twisted panties, not mine!"

"Why are you so obsessed with my pants? Fuck, are you just _that _desperate to get in them or what?"

He pulled a face, tilting his head away from me. "Trust me Tucker, I ain't interested in what you're selling."

I raised my eyebrows, crossing my arms across my knees. "Now, we both know _that's_ a lie."

"My bad. I should have remembered you ain't selling. You like to give yours away for _free."_

I deadpanned him a glower, flipping him the bird. "Go to hell, McCormick."

"Oh, trust me Tucker, I'm already there."

We sat in silence for a while, side by side, just watching the clouds drift across the sky, and the smoke curl up from Kenny's cigarette. Behind us, the heating pipes in the wall were humming slightly, vibrating against their fixtures. Down the wall one of the extractor fans was lazily clunking out a weak puffs of steam, second hand respiration and water vapour the vents had sucked up from the classrooms, the cafeteria and the gym. It was all fairly miserable, wet bricks, bleak and mechanic, like industrial Poland, or communist Russia.

"The food tech teacher is threatening to hold Tweek back if he doesn't poach an egg by the end of term."

Kenny blinked across at me, brining his knees up. "Harsh. What are his chances?"

"Eh," I wavered my hand in front of me "he might be able to, given enough luck and practice. And enough vinegar. But I wouldn't bet my house on it. Truth be told, I probably wouldn't even bet _your_ house on it."

"_Vinegar_?"

"It congeals it. Apparently. I dunno. I don't give a shit about cookery."

"What else?"

"What do you mean what else?"

"What else is bothering you?"

"No, nothing else. It's pretty much just the egg, holding back Tweek thing." Kenny pursed his lips, looking away from me. Looking unconvinced. "I'm serious dude. It's just the egg thing."

"Most people don't get their panties as bunched up as yours are over _eggs_, Craig."

"Yeah, well most people don't live in _South Park_, Kenny."

"Touché." He frowned, glancing up at the sun. "I'm sure he'll manage it though. I mean, how hard can it be to poach an egg?"

"For a regular person, not that hard. For Tweek... Well, it's Tweek." I sighed, checking my watch. "I'm going to shop class when the bell rings."

"Good for you."

"Are you going?"

"To _shop_? No. I don't take shop."

"No, smartass, to whatever class it is you're supposed to have."

"Art."

"You take _art_? Dude, that's just _gay."_

He just pulled a face, shifting as he pulled his legs against his worn-out jacket, bracing himself from the cold. "I know. But it's easy. And Kyle takes it. So I have company."

"It's still gay."

"_You're _still gay."

"Careful you don't cut yourself on that razor sharp _wit_, McCormick."

Kenny shrugged, exhaling slightly. For a while we fell silent, just staring out across the slush. Then Kenny shifted, clearing his throat as he did. "I'm bored."

"Well, what the fuck do you want me to do about it? Toss you off? Play _tic-tac-toe_? Find shapes in the _clouds_?"

"Yeah, alright." He shifted slightly, repositioning himself in the slush, crouching down on the balls of his feet. "You see that one, that one right there." I deadpanned him a look, not following where he was pointing. "That one kind of looks like a football. Your turn."

Exhaling, I turned away from him, shielding my eyes from the sporadic sun. "Alright. You see that fat, amorphous blobby one?" I pointed. Kenny squinted, and nodded. "That one looks like Cartman. See that amorphous blob next to it? Yeah, that one also looks like Cartman. See those two blobby ones that have just merged together as one big-ass blobby one? They too, also looks like Cartman."

"Actually, those ones kinda looks like a squashed heart. Or Kyle's ass."

I frowned, glaring up at the sky. "Kyle's ass?"

Kenny nodded. "Seriously, I'm not kidding. Just squint at it a bit, maybe tilt your head."

"Actually yeah, I can see where you're coming from. If you blur your eyes a bit, they kinda do."

"Maybe I should text him. Tell him that we found his ass in the sky."

I was still squinting at the cloud, watching as the wind lazily blew the shapes across the sky, watching as the Broflovski ass-cloud eclipsed the sun. "Maybe you should."

* * *

><p>AN – Feel free to vocate yay or nay on a random Denver slash-esque scene. I'm still on the fence about it, so I don't mind either way. Anyhoo, another fairly bridging update to make up for how short the last one was, apologies about that. Thank you thank you for reading, even though this is looking to be like yet another story with a meandering plot (becausefuckthat'swhatIdo), and super lovely thank you thank yous for reviewing, is awesomesawses.

And stickyfrog, thank you for noting those down, I've gone through the last few chapters and corrected them, so thank you. A lot of the jarring sentences/repetition is a mixture between my writing style (which is notoriously repetitive and fairly jarring on a base volley) and me attempting to write Craig's first person narrative with a diluted stream of consciousness. Ah well, danke sehr x.

And rosievsworld, I'm so glad someone got that reference *cyberfistbumb*.


	7. Ready and Willing

Exhaling, I gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other hanging loose between my legs, casually worrying with a cigarette. Tweek was getting better at cracking the eggs. I was trying to convince him of that. I was trying to convince _myself_ of that. I was pretty sure if I said it enough, it might become true.

For two hours I'd stood behind him, steadily guiding his hands to the trays of fucking eggs, guiding them to the bowl, cracking them, pulling them open. Again and again I'd guided him, I'd crack and open, I'd discard the shells, and I'd pick up a new egg. Again and again he'd let me lead him, let me pull him about like a rag doll, let me take his hands to the eggs, to the bowl, and to the bin, slow and rhythmical, lulling and cold.

There was nothing tender about it this time, nothing soft or emotional, I was too ridged, to forced and reserved. He was too withdrawn, to quivery, to isolated. It was businesslike, I was the puppeteer, he was Sooty, or Kermit, or whatever. Nothing more then that. No emotions. There couldn't be. I just figured if I did this enough, he'd get used to the motions. Like, muscle memory or something. If I held him steady and guided him enough times, eventually he'd be able to do it on his own, he wouldn't need looming over him like some depressing scarecrow.

It'd been a fairly awful atmosphere; I hadn't been pressing for conversation, and neither had he. I was too busy thinking about Denver, about essays and assignments, about deadlines and snow and Kenny and Token and pestilence and war and AIDS, about anything other then Tweek standing right there, inches away from me. And he was too busy thinking about eggs. Or coffee maybe. Or whatever, I don't know. He was too busy thinking about something.

We'd just cracked the eggs in silence, again and again until I just couldn't stand to look at another fucking yolk. So I'd told him we were done, and I'd left him. I'd left him standing in his kitchen, staring at a substantial bowlful of eggmess. I'd left him to have some tepid, most likely, egg based dinner with his parents. I'd said goodbye, I'd walked out the door, I'd kicked my way home through the slush, and I'd climbed into my dad's truck. That was that.

Indicating, I glanced over my shoulder, merging into the traffic. I hated Denver, I hated the clubs, I hated the bars, I hated the lights, the signs, the neon and the flashing, but most of all I hated the people. I hated how there was always someone, someone willing to pull you back to their bedroom, or a friends house, or a cheap motel, or the bathroom, or the alleyway. No matter what time you went, where you went, what you wore, there was always someone lurking in the shadows. There was always someone ready and willing.

I chose a club this time, a tacky, thumpy one. It wasn't very impressive, pretty much just filtered flashing lights, lines of neon, mirrored bars, dance music, it was all painfully cliché. The whole place seemed to be pretty lacklustre, like it'd been left unrenovated for that bit too long, and was slowly sinking deeper and deeper into disrepair. The floor was sticky, the tables were smeared, someone had even managed to knock a chip out of the bar. Even the staff looked tired and worn down. They didn't even bat an eyelid at the fake ID. They'd probably seen too many to count.

But none of that mattered. It did its job. I ordered myself a drink, I waited, I ordered myself another, I waited, I ordered myself a third, and there he was, dancing in and out of the shadows. Ready and willing. Just like always.

He'd looked quite interesting in the club. Standing there, talking to me, haloed by the different coloured light filter. Middling, medium height, medium build, appeasing features, delicate demeanour, but forgettable. Like a extra in a TV show. I was leaning against the bar, and he was standing next to me, one elbow propped on the smudged mirrored surface. A spotlight was hitting the display of coloured alcohol bottles, the rows of dyed glass and acridly coloured liquids. The reflections were echoing back against his face, dappling him with wavering, pastel fragments. I wasn't listening to a word he was saying. I was just watching the refractions. They were depressingly beautiful.

I'd driven us back to his place. I probably shouldn't have, I was pretty sure I was over the legal limit, but it didn't matter. I didn't get stopped. He talked to me, none stop, fluidly. Constant noise, a stream of nothingness, vapid conversation, pointless small talk, his college course, his friends, his life, his flat, I wasn't really listening. He was pretending to be drunker then he was. But hey, so was I.

Then I was pulling over, we were there, some industrial brick block located in one of the lacking parts of Denver. And I was gripping at him in a stairwell that smelled slightly of ammonia, raking my hands up his shirt, down his jeans, invading his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as he gripped round my neck. He was pulling me forward, pulling me up the stairs, pulling me into an apartment. He was apologising for his roommate, for the mess, his words muffled against my mouth.

Then I was kneeling on an orange bedspread, on a mattress on the floor, in the middle of some dimly lit room. I was pulling at the hem of his shirt, pulling up the jersey, desperate to get it off. He was reciprocating the favour, clutching back at me, pawing and the crotch of my jeans, nimbly working the flies.

He was clutching something, gripping a silver square between his teeth. I just frowned at him, my face flushed. "Do you have any that _aren't _flavoured?"

He just watched me, his eyes wide, pupils blown. He was already passed the point of no return. "Does it really _matter_?"

I just swallowed, looking away, rubbing lube into two of my fingers. He just bit the inside of his cheek, tearing the foil, catching me. Pineapple scented condoms and cherry flavoured lube. It was all just so, so _wrong_.

Sex was never pretty, not for me. There was always something carnal about it, something dirty and shameful, something rough. It feels weird, not so much the act in itself, but in all the wet, heavy atmosphere surrounding it. It always felt a bit like stepping on gravel in a pitch black alleyway. You never know if those things you're feeling beneath your feet, if the crunches, if it's just the rocks, or if it's garbage, or plastic, or something worse, if it's bone or teeth or sinew or horror. You never quite know, and fuck, you don't _want_ to know.

Exhaling I braced myself, grabbing a handful of his hair as I yanked his head back. It wasn't delicate, it certainly wasn't loving, but I wasn't making love to him. I was fucking him. Cathartic, emotionless fucking. Fucking the urges and the feelings out. Just fucking. I was just fucking him. But I was going to fuck him well, because I always fuck them well. I'm very good at fucking. People have told me that before.

Grunting slightly, I drove my face against him, against his neck. His hair looked like Tweeks. Hell, his hair felt like Tweeks. Stiff, wiry, malleable, stuck up in all these odd, tufted points. The difference was Tweek was accidental, his hair just did that, if felt like crisp, dry hair and grease and shampoo residue, and it smelt like coffee and human. It was all accidental. This guy, his was artificial, it was all fake and forced. He'd probably spent hours moulding and backcombing, positioning it just right, knowing it was only going to get wrecked again when he found someone to grab at it. It felt tacky, like PVA, and it smelt like grapefruit and lavender.

But the colour, that weird, lemony yellow, in the dim room, it was near as damnit bang on. That was real. You can't concoct that colour in the bathroom using peroxide and ammonia, it's something you either have or don't. Tweek has it, and so did that guy.

But that was about it, aside from the hair, he was nothing like Tweek. He was tempered and steady, sturdy, but in a good way. His muscles and sinew, his skin, he was solid and wiry, like a field labourer, only pale, very pale. He was good. He did the job well. Someday, he was going to make someone very happy.

A few hours later and he was asleep. I left him sprawled on the bed, twisted round in the covers. He looked younger then he was, all spent and gleaming. People always look younger then they are after sex though. I suppose it's the vulnerability. You're stripped naked and at your worst, spent and panting. You're at the peak of vulnerability, and you're peaking with a stranger. Go figure.

Exhaling, I rubbed my face. I made a point not to know his name. It was always easier when you didn't know their names. You could compartmentalise them, it became just an act, an act between strangers. Sordid, awful, but confined to the bedroom, only the bedroom. I left him sleeping in his room, I picked my way through the mess on the living room floor, I quietly shut the door behind me, and I left. I always leave.

Pursing my lips, I adjusted my hold on the steering wheel. The roads round here were pretty much dead at this time of night. Only occasionally would I catching the headlights of another car, a van, a motorbike, lighting up the cold, empty night like will-o'-wisps in the fog. It'd be approaching three by the time I made it back, and I still needed to shower. Frowning, I gripped the gear stick, indicating to change lanes. I smelt like sex, like sex and grapefruit and lavender and artificial pineapple. I couldn't rub the smell of fruit off my hands. And I could still taste cherry. It tasted _wrong_.

* * *

><p>AN – Apologies I couldn't upload over the weekend. I had an assessed presentation to prepare for this morning. I spent all weekend crying with fear. Ah well, Craig's a whore. Thank you thank you so much for reading. Superman duperman thank you thank you's for reviewing, is candyfloss and fluffy and duvet and lovely lovely love.


	8. Sex and Snow

Tweek was avoiding me. I wasn't surprised. He usually avoided me after I went to Denver. Maybe he thought I became infected with some rare Denver-orientated disease, maybe he was imposing what he considered a necessary quarantine on me. Maybe he thought I'd smuggled back a truckfull of vicious Denver gnomes to set on him, the sort of gnomes that make the South Park gnomes look as harmless as ceramic garden ornaments, maybe he thought they were after his underwear again. Maybe he just didn't want to be around me, maybe he was just too disappointed. Maybe it was just easier to avoid me. Maybe he was just ashamed of me. Then again, maybe he just didn't want to have to talk about the eggs again. He'd probably just had enough of the fucking eggs. I think we were both reaching the brink of our sanity regarding those fucking eggs.

Whatever the reason, he was avoiding me. I'd stomped my way through the morning slurry of part-melted ice only to be greeted by his mother, who'd politely informed me he'd already left. At school, he hid from me. He twitched about me in the hallways, he ignored me in homeroom, he ignored me in class, he ignored me at lunch. I just let him. I ignored him right back. If ignoring was what he wanted, then fine, ignoring was what he could have. I always let him have whatever it was he wanted, after all.

Needless to say, lunch was a fairly awkward affair. Tweek was silent, curled up into a discombobulated ball, a thermos clutched against his chest. Clyde was absent, he'd got detention or something for not doing his homework, I dunno. Token was trying to compensate for the painfully lacking atmosphere, he was trying to be polite and proper, trying to forge conversation and elevate the awkwardness, he was trying to be a good socialite, just like his parents had taught him.

Unfortunately for him, neither me nor Tweek was willing to indulge his effort. He was just left there, running his mouth, talking constantly about nothing, some pointless party Bebe was planning. Apparently she wanted to celebrate the fact that her and Clyde were on again, or off again, or that she was with Jimmy again, or that someone had died, or that she'd got a new eye shadow. I dunno. I wasn't listening. Besides, it's not like Bebe ever needed a reason to throw a party. No-one round here needed a reason to throw a party. It's fucking South Park. Underage drinking and rampant promiscuity is pretty much all South Park is. It wasn't like there was anything else. Just intoxication, sex and snow.

I only managed five minutes of Token's constant, forced, verbatim before I gave in. Exhaling sharply, I just pulled myself to my feet, flipping him off as I stalked out the cafeteria, my middle finger saluting him crudely over my left shoulder.

Kenny wasn't out the back this time. But hey, that wasn't all that surprising. Lunch was pretty much the only reason he bothered showing to this school. I'm pretty sure that if it wasn't for the stupid school foodstamp tokens, if it wasn't for promise of a vaguely lukewarm plate of meat offcuts and budget Tater Tots, his only rounded meal of the day, he just wouldn't bother. It's not like any of this shit they teach us actually _matters_, after all.

So I just sat there, in the muddy slurry of water and ice and snow, smoking constantly, my eyes transfixed on the listless clouds, and the anaemic sky. An age passed, the bell went, the hallways behind the cheap brick walls began to fill up, I heard shouting and pushing, I heard the chaos, and then I heard quiet, but I ignored it. I just stayed there, sitting in the slush, the tops of my thighs completely numb with the cold, my fingertips dead from the wind-chill, I just sat there, trying to make shapes in a shapeless sky.

"Mr. Tucker, why aren't you in class?"

I blinked, pulling my gaze away from the heavens. My history teacher was standing there, arms crossed, stance squared. He was staring at me with the same glare most people reserve for insects. I just gazed right back at him with my own eyes wide, unblinking. He asked me again, but I just ignored him, still deadpanning him a glare. Then he threatened to send me to the principle, so I flipped him off. As punishment, he frogmarched me to guidance councillor.

I think they know how much I hate the guidance councillor; I think that's why they keep on sending me to see her. It's like they realise I'd much rather be sent to the principles office, watch him grill me out for ten minutes, watch him call my parents, listen to the wavering voice of my mother express just how _disappointed _she is. Fuck, I'd rather they sent me to detention. At least in detention you can just prop a book against your face and fall asleep. I might even be able to talk to Clyde, if he's still in there. No one cares what you do in detention, just so long as whatever it is you're doing, you do it quietly.

No, I'd rather be sent anywhere, I'd rather be shouted at and excluded, I'd rather be sent home to face my father, I don't care, I'd just rather be sent anywhere other then that stupid fucking counsellor. I just hate it. He frogmarched me to her door, and forced me to stand outside her office. He knocked, he entered, they talked for a minute, then he left. He stormed off down the hallway, leaving me standing there, my shoulders pushed up against the wall, my middle finger raised at his briskly retreating back.

For a moment, I contemplated leaving, just walking away, going home. I contemplated just going back to Denver, haunting yet another cheap-ass club, finding that collage kid again, finding a new one, a different one, just venting my frustration by fucking someone, anyone, just marring someone with the shame of it all. But it wouldn't matter. I'd still have to come back, they'd still make me go see her. If I left today, it'd only be worse tomorrow. Twice as long, two sessions, they might even threaten to set up weekly meetings again. Sometimes it was easer to swallow the pill when they told you too. Just gulp in down and get it over with.

I frowned, glaring out the window. This hallway was one that overlooked the quad: Broflovski was limping across the concrete, one arm anchored around Marsh's neck, the other pressed against his ribs. He was bleeding, somewhat profusely, from what I can only assume was a pretty serious face-ball-kick incident during gym. Who knows. Whatever it was that had happened, it probably had something to do with Cartman. Kyle was hardly sporty, not really, anyway, but he generally had the wherewithal about him to duck when he needed to.

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at the somewhat pathetic spectacle. Broflovski'd managed to smear blood across both his and Marsh's gym shirts. His I could understand, he was bleeding, after all, but the entire front of Marsh's shirt was slick and blotchy with the stuff. I wasn't quite sure how Kyle'd managed to do that, to physically _get_ that much blood on him. It looked like it must have taken some effort, like he'd been standing over him and strategically bleeding on him. It sorta looked like he'd been burying his face into Stan's chest. Either that, or Marsh had been letting Broflovski wipe his bloody hands on the front of his shirt. I pulled a face, looking away. That seemed like the sort of pussy thing Stan'd do; just stand there nonchalantly whist his best friend bitched at him and pawed blood across his chest.

Next to me, the counsellor's door clicked open, and Butters stumbled out. He was clutching a handful of prestigious looking collage procures, pressing the shiny printed surfaces against the front of his shirt. He stammered out a greeting towards me, I just raised my eyebrows back at him, pushing past him as I forced my way into the counsellor's stupid room.

Fuck, I hate her room. I hate her chairs, I hate her desk, I hate her stupid motivational posters. I even hate her carpet. I really hate her stupid little pamphlet rack. All those stupid bright coloured brochures, all those bad, clipart-ridden titles, _So You Think You're Ready To Start Having Sex?_, _Your Period and You_,_ Exam Stress: How to Manage_, and my personal favourite, _It's Okay To Be Gay_. I inhaled, throwing myself heavily into one of the chairs. I still remember when she tried to give that last one to me, a few years ago, when all the rumours first began. I was so angry that I threw her stupid potted plant against the window. I was so angry at her, at the fact she thought it was any of her _business_. At the fact that she thought I was pathetic enough to needed a cheap-ass slip of paper to affirm me. At the fact that she'd just assumed I'd somehow needed to be affirmed.

I just glared up at her, deadpanning a look across the desk. She always sat there, her fingers tented on the desk, a serious, pseudo-concerned look plastered on her gaunt face. I mean, she looks at you in this way, like she's honestly trying to pretend that she gives a shit about your pathetic little life and your pathetic little problems, but she just can't bring herself to care. She tries, and she pretends, but it's obvious that whenever she looks at you, she's really not seeing you. She's just seeing her paycheck, her monthly salary, she's just seeing her rent, her food, her shopping, she's just seeing dollar symbols plastered across your face. It was always the same. She'd ask, oh-so nicely, why I'd flipped the maths teacher off, why I'd punched Eric Cartman, why I'd kicked that freshman, why I'd thrown a chair at the lockers. Why I'd hurled her pot plant at the window. And I'd just sit there, glaring at her, trying not to choke on the overpowering scent of lavender-fucking-talcum power and air freshener. And she'd just sit there, watching me, her fingers never moving from that tented position on her desk, dollar symbols still dancing across her mind.

I swear, sometimes it feels like I spend more time in her office, staring blankly at her face, then I spend in class. Christ, I'm relatively certain the only reason the school never managed to hold me back was because I captained the lacrosse team for three years. Well, because I captained them to victory, at least. Had I been loosing, I'm pretty sure it would have been a whole other story.

"Why did you miss your appointment with me yesterday, Craig?"

I pulled a face, looking away. "I guess I just forgot."

"You didn't just forget."

"Well then, I guess just didn't want to come. I guess I thought it'd be a pointless waste of time."

She sighed, her look transgressing faked concern, and reaching condescending. "It's not _pointless_, Craig. It's your _future_. You need to make an effort, prepare for it, _stop skipping class_. This is _important_, Craig. You understand, yes?"

Exhaling, I just rubbed my face with my hands, whispering curses into my palms. Despite the too long shower I'd taken, despite scrubbing at them with a scourer, despite soaking them in hand sanitizer, despite all the nicotine, my palms still smelt like artificial pineapple. It was like that smell was branded into my skin or something, like I'd smell like artificial pineapple forever. Or maybe I was just going mad.

When I didn't answer her, the counsellor pressed on. "You must have some plans for your future Craig. Everyone has some idea. Have you thought about what colleges you'll be applying to?"

"No."

"Have you looked into community college?"

"No."

"Well… Well what do you want to do when you're older? Have you thought about what _career _you're interested in perusing?"

"No."

"You're not going to leave here until you drop the attitude and have a serious discussion with me, Craig. This is _your_ _future_ we're talking about." I dropped my hand away from my face, glaring at her, trying to call her bluff. She just raised her eyebrows at me. "I mean it Craig, you're not leaving until we _talk_."

"You want to know what I want to be when I'm all grown up? Fine!" I pressed both hands against her desk for emphasis, pulling myself up into a mid-crouch, mid-sit, pulling my face closer to hers. She lent back slightly, still watching me, fingers still tented. "I want to be a producer, a producer or a cinematographer. Maybe even a director. Maybe even a camera man! I don't really give a _fuck_. Maybe I'll just be that guy who sits up in the production room, you know, the one who decides whose face to pan to when the pissant MasterChef contender's stupid hideous buttercream macaron cylinder collapses in a pastel pink wave of fail." I paused for a moment, before smirking slightly. "That was so funny. Did you see it? The macarons just slid right off it, and they went _everywhere_. And everyone was crying, crying over this tidal wave of fucking rosy pink and lavender. It was so fucking _funny_. I swear I nearly wet myself. There. _Can I go now_?"

"I don't think you're taking this very seriously, Mr. Tucker."

"_Really_?"

She pursed her lips, her face pained, watching me like I was actually physically ailing her. I just stared at her, my hands still on her desk, stubbornly refusing to break eye contact.

Exhaling, she conceded, reaching down and pulling open a draw. "Here, just… Just take this."

She was waving a brochure at me, a glossy, tacky thing. I quirked an eyebrow, glancing down at it. "Boulder?"

"They have a fairly proficient film department."

I just sighed, snatching the booklet away from her. Pointedly not thanking her, pointedly slamming the door as I stormed out the room.


	9. Uniform and Procedure

After school, I went to Harbucks. Whenever Tweek was trying to avoid me, he went and helped his dad out in Harbucks. I don't think he realised how counter productive that actually was. Whilst he was working at Harbucks, he physically couldn't ignore me. He had to stand there and talk to me, to take my order, he had to look straight ahead and face me, because I was the customer, and he had to be polite to the customer. Just like his dad had taught him.

Exhaling slightly, I pushed open the door. Tweek glanced up, saw me, started slightly, and attempted to busy himself with a dishcloth and a metal jug. I just smiled weakly, watching him. He suited Harbucks. The little green aprons, the kitchy displays and pseudo-homely chalkboards, the stupid heavy mugs and barely edible patisseries. He looked at home here, penned up behind the counter, contained, painted with uniformity and procedure, basic building block recipes for overpriced, designer cups of coffee. Coffee was one thing he could do. No matter how badly he did it, how much he shook, twitched, jerked, no matter how uncoordinated he was, no matter how much mess he made, he could always do it, and it always come out fine. Good even. Great, sometimes. Great most of the time. Caffeine was in his blood. Quite literally, actually. The amount he drank, his whole system must be influxed with the stuff.

Exhaling, I rested my elbows on the too-low counter. I tried to smile at him, but I didn't quite manage it. All I could manage was a weak-ass lip quirk, something that probably looked vaguely like a smirk. Not that that mattered much: nearly every facial expression I make ends up looking vaguely like a smirk. I just have a very smirkish face, I guess. Tweek just pursed his lips, looking away. He was shaking again, quite violently. He didn't usually shake so much when he was in Harbucks, usually Harbucks had a calming effect on him. Dimly I wondered if I should try stop him, just take his shoulders, grip him, clutch at him, attempt to force him steady. Not that it would work, mind you. Nothing like that ever worked.

"What can I get you?"

"A latte. With an extra shot. And some caramel syrup. And some caramel drizzle. And some whipped cream. A large one. To go. And make it with skimmed milk, not the other stuff."

"Venti."

"What."

"It's not a large one, it's a venti."

"Whatever."

Tweek just exhaled, dutifully penning the order down on the cup. Not that he had to, the guy who was supposed to be manning the machine and making the drinks was too busy bussing tables. Tweek was going to make it himself anyway. He didn't need to pen down the order if he was the one making it. No matter how convoluted and ridiculous they were, he always remembered the order. He always got them right. He was like some ADHD coffee savant.

I guess he just liked to pen it down anyway, because that was what you were supposed to do. That was the procedure. And he always followed the procedure.

"Did you have a nice time in Denver?" I glanced up, watching him. He was staring at the metal milk jug, his eyes transfixed to the steamer. It was doing a pretty lousy job of it. His hands were shaking too much, he was getting too much air into it, making it too frothy. He was dangerously close to scalding himself.

I just blinked, running my hand across the vaguely grubby countertop. "No. No-one ever has a nice time in Denver. Denver's _awful_. It's a miserable place."

"Then why do you keep on going there?"

"Perhaps I like misery."

"No-one likes misery."

"I know."

"Then-Then why do you keep on going?"

Shrugging slightly, I lent across the counter, watching him handle the cup, the syrup, the coffee, the whipped cream dispenser, all with the same shaking, jerking hands. I frowned slightly, biting my lip. If he could steam milk and pack grounds, if he could dispense fucking _whipped cream_ into an amorphous little splat, if he could do all that, why the _fuck_ couldn't he crack an egg? He had the ability, lord fuck he was _proving_ he had the ability, why could he only do it with coffee and cream? Was it just eggs he couldn't handle, or was it just coffee he _could_? What the fuck sort of mental blocks did he build for himself? Exhaling, I rubbed my face with my hands. Nothing about him made even the slightest bit of sense.

"_Craig_?"

"_What_?"

"If Denver's miserable, why… Why go? Why not just stay here?"

I narrowed my eyes, gazing across at the menu through the gaps between my fingers. "Penance, I guess. Misery's miserable, but sometimes miserable's what you need. Sometimes miserable… Sometimes miserable's all you can get. And misery does love it's company, after all."

He blinked. "That's just retarded."

"_Life's_ just retarded."

"Misery breeds misery Craig." Exhaling he dropped the cup in front of me, gazing at me with a look that was too intense, to _disappointed_. Pursing my lips, I looked away from him, frowning across at a wall.

"Make it again."

"W-Why? _No_! It's _fine_. Dude, no, you didn't even _taste _it!"

"I know. Just make it again."

"Why? Fuck, if you make me make that shit again, I'll going to actually _charge_ you for it!"

"Just make it again."

"Fucking w_hy_?"

I pursed my lips, looking at the counter. Someone had spilt their coffee across it. The mixture of damp and heat and acidity was beginning to wreck the cheap plastic surface, wrinkling the laminate and curling up the corners. "Because I want you to keep on talking, okay? I just want you to keep on fucking talking."

He paused for a second, his hands clamed awkwardly across his chest. "_Why_?"

I glanced up at him, my elbows still resting on the counter top. I was pretty much bent double, creased at the waist, gazing up at him, at his stupid sticky mess of hair, his stupid deep brown eyes. His too deep brown eyes. His disappointed brown eyes. I lowered my gaze. "I just do."

He looked so small. Partly because he was small. Not massively so, he wasn't particularly short, nor was he particularly waif-like. He was pretty normal, actually, the lower side of average, granted, but average nevertheless. I guess he was just stunted, tired, stuck in a constant tornado of mess and angst and broken disarray. He was lost. So lost, and so very fragile. It made him look smaller then he was. A sort of baby-bird effect.

He was still watching me, absently biting at the inside of his cheek. "We could… We could go crack some more eggs, if you want?"

"No. No more fucking eggs. Not today. I'm too tired."

"Well… W-what in Christ's name do you want to do then?"

He wouldn't stop watching me, those too brown eyes wide, his pupils blown. He'd had too much caffeine. Or not enough caffeine. I never was quite sure with him.

"I don't want anything. I just want you to keep on _talking_."

"About _what_ man?"

"About _anything _Tweekers. It doesn't matter. Just, just _talk_."

"Dude, that's too much _pressure_! What the fuck do you want me to talk about?"

He was still watching me. His eyes still glued to me. His eyes still wide, still too brown, too disapproving, too… I dunno. They were too something. Hurt maybe. He looked so hurt. Exhaling, I sprawled across the counter, resting my face on the fugly laminate. It was a fairly uncomfortable position, but I didn't care. I was either too exhausted or too apathetic to care.

"You PMS like a _bitch_, Craig."

I frowned, looking up at him. He was never usually so abrupt. Not unless he was really angry, anyway. "What do you mean?"

He pursed his lips, jerking his head away from me, slamming a blender lid into the ever-running tap. "One minute, you're-You're _fine_, you're nice, you _help_ me, you-you-we-" he waved his hand in some incomprehensible, unreadable gesture, "and everything _good_, and then, _wham_, you're _not_! Then you're gone, and in _Denver_, doing _that_, with all _those _people, and then you come _back_, and you're just all pissy and distant. And then you're _not_! And _wham_, you're here, moping and shit like _I'm the one who-who_… Who… Like the worlds just ended and your guinea pig was a casualty!" He blinked, catching a gasp in his throat. "Dude, it's like you're speaking some foreign language to me! Every day something different, something new and changed and _fuck_. I have no idea what to do! I have no idea-no idea… I have no idea what to _do_, Craig… Just… Just _tell me what I'm supposed to do_!"

I blinked up at him, my hand worrying with the curve of my coffee cup. "I'm sorry Tweek. I guess… I guess I'm just tired."

"D-Dude, if you're _tired_, why don't you just go to _bed_? Why come _here_?"

I didn't say anything. I didn't have anything to say. Everything was fucked up. All this shit, the shit I did, this fucking town, it was fucked up. _I _was fucked up. I was finding it hard to think straight. For some reason, every time I shut my eyes, I kept on seeing that dude from Denver. It was like a film still, just, just, this grainy, shitty image of him. And I didn't want it. I didn't want to actually _remember _him, the guilt and shame and pathetic fucking _pathos_. I just wanted one night of pathetic release, and then it should have been over, nothing more then echoes and dust. Christ, if I wanted to have to actually _think_ about it again, I might as well have just fucked Kenny again or something. It would have saved a shitton of gas.

But no, he was still there, pressing against my memory like a shameful secret. Too clear for comfort, to close, to pressing. It was horrendous. It was _guilt_. Really, really awful _guilt_. And I had no idea why. I'd just fucked him, and left. Same as always do. But it felt different this time. It felt _awful _this time.

I blinked, my face still pressed against the countertop, my eyes blurry and unfocused. "I think I'm falling apart."

I'd not realised I'd said it out loud until Tweek snorted derisively, crossing his arms in the airspace above me. "_Jesus Christ_, welcome to the club."

* * *

><p>AN – I'll make a conscious effort to update this thing at least once a week. Probably on Mondays. But maybe not on Mondays. I just seem to be updating a lot on Mondays. Must be something about this day that compels me to write this shmit. Eh well, I have no idea what this story's doing, but whatever it is, it seems to be pretty damn miserable at the moment.


	10. Tendons and Veins

Exhaling, I lay back, pressing my head against Tweek's pillow, tilting my head to one side so I didn't have to look at anything beside the slightly marked burgundy paint that still adorned his four bedroom walls. It smelt like Tweek, his pillow, the bed, the whole room. It smelt like coffee, Harbucks, sweat, humanity, bar soap, it smelt like the fabric softener his mother uses. It smelt like pain, and heartbreak, and love. Because that's what Tweek smells like to me, like angst and love.

Pursing my lips, I narrowed my eyes, wriggling a cigarette out my pocked, fumbling about with my lighter. It was a fairly awkward job, lighting it whilst adamantly refusing to sit up, but I persevered. Sitting up would mean having to look at him, and right now, after Harbucks, after the tense walk back to his house, after his gentle, quivering concern and that stupid little green apron and the way his hair stuck up in that very specific way, right now, I just really _couldn't_ look at him. Not without doing something stupid, something harmful, something _wonderful_. Some wonderful regret. I felt Tweek watch me with vague disapproval; he never liked it when I smoked, he pretty much hated it when I smoked in his room. Not that that deterred me or anything, I still did it. I'm a dick, after all.

"Butters sa-said that they-they sent you to the counsellor today." He was sitting above me somewhere, close enough to sense, not so close we were touching. Close enough for it to ache, not so close it was dangerous.

"Yup."

A spattering of ash fell against my shirt. I just blinked and pushed it off. Tweek made some throaty disapproving yelp. "Jesus man, use an _ashtray_ or a _mug_ or something, don't get ash on my fucking _bed_."

"Sorry."

"It's _okay_, just _stop_. Don't... Don't _smoke so much_."

I blinked. "Sorry."

He just sighed, crossing his legs. "Did you get in trouble?"

"What?"

"The counsellor? Did you get in trouble?"

"No. She just wanted to bitch at me about my future. You know, careers week and all that shit." I pulled a face, taking a drag. "She just gave me a booklet for Boulder, nothing real. Nothing _helpful_."

I felt him pause slightly, sighing into the dimly lit room. "Boulder's pretty real Craig."

"No, it's not. It's tangible, sure, it _exists_, but it's not a reality.

"You could go to Boulder if you wanted. You're pretty special. I'm sure you could get in if you _tried_."

"I don't want to be special Tweek. I don't want to _try_. I just want to be normal. And I don't want to go to Boulder."

"We don't always get what we want, Craig. Sometimes we just have to do what's _best_."

I exhaled, arching my back slightly. "I know, Tweeks. Trust me, I _know_. But Boulder isn't really what's best, not… Not in the long run."

"What _is _best then?"

I frowned, twisting slightly, pointedly not answering him. I felt bad. Just, generally bad. I felt guilty, and ashamed, and dirty, and wrong. But I also felt heavy, and tired, and lethargic, and apathetic. And rotten, like something inside of me had died, and I'd just left it there, this amorphous mass of nothing, a decaying, rotten, heavy little lump. This horrible shadow of what I did in Denver, rotting pineapples and sour cherries. It felt so _wrong_.

Groaning slightly, I pulled a face, resting my arm over my eyes. "I don't want to be here anymore, Tweek."

"Why?"

"Because here's _here_. _Nobody_ wants to be here."

"So-so what? Just leave. Nothing's stopping you: you can just pack your bags and _go_. Just get in a car and _drive_. _You_ _can_ _leave_. If you... If you really hate it that much, just-ngh-just _go_."

"It's not that easy Tweekers."

"Yes, it really _is_."

"What about you?"

"What do you _mean_?"

"I have every intention of taking you with me, Tweeks. I'm not just going to abandon you here or anything. You know what they say, no man left behind and all that shit. I'll take you with me when I leave. We'll get out together, we'll burn this shithole to the ground."

For a minute he was silent, there was nothing but the sound of sleet and darkness. Then I heard him swallow. "Where will we go?"

Smiling slightly, I shut my eyes, pressing myself back against his pillow as I inhaled another drag. "Somewhere nice and boring. Somewhere quiet and secluded, away from people, away from mistakes, away from this shit-ass _town_, away from fucking everything."

"Alaska?"

"Quieter. And more boring."

Tweek was still shaking slightly, not as pronounced as usual, merely slight vibrations. He was too exhausted to be overwrought, too over jacked on caffeine, Harbucks, stimulants. Medication. Who knew. Whatever it was, he was calm. Well, he was as calm as he was ever going to get, anyway. It hadn't quite stopped, the paranoia and shaking, I could still feel him, feel his slight weight rocking the bed. But it wasn't bad. It was calm. It was calming.

"An oil rig? Deep off into the middle of the ocean?"

"Yeah, that sounds pretty boring. Not very nice though, or quiet."

"An abandoned oil rig deep off into the middle of the ocean?"

"Certainly quiet. But not very nice."

"We could hang one of those basket things up. You know, the green ones, the ones with the little flowers in."

"There you go, bingo. When we're all grown up, we'll run off and live on an abandoned oil rig in the middle of the ocean. We'll take a fucking potted plant, and we'll claim it as out country, just like the Principality of Sealand did. And it'll be just us, all alone, secluded, nice and boring. Just us two, floating alone in the middle of the ocean, nothing to harm us, no-one to fuck us over. Nothing to mess with our heads. Just you and me, out there alone."

I felt Tweek sigh, leaning back as he pressed his head against the wall. "That isn't a very well thought out plan, you know. We wouldn't be able to eat, we'd have no electricity or fresh water, we'd be sitting ducks for a gnome attack. Man, there's be so much _pressure_ just to survive. It just wouldn't work."

"I know. But it's nice to dream sometimes."

"I guess." Tweek was shifting about above me, fidgeting to get himself comfy. I just lay there, still and lethargic, blinking as I felt the mattress dip down next to me, the slight pressure that told me he was sitting closer then he had been, inching further and further into a danger zone. I just shut my eyes and attempted to fall asleep, attempted to force out my jumble of emotions and angst and pain and stupid pressuring, demanding _feelings_. He could ferret about above me all he wanted when I was asleep. If I could only fall asleep, I wouldn't have to fight this internal battle, I wouldn't have to force myself to remain glued to the mattress, force myself to remain distanced from him. Force myself to keep away from him.

"For real though Craig, what do you want to do?"

His voice and his scent and his room was making it very difficult to keep away from him. It was making it very difficult for me to remember why I was doing this, why I _couldn't_. Why I really, really _couldn't_. "I dunno. Whatever I can, I guess."

"You've got to have some idea."

"I really don't know."

"_Craig_!"

I swallowed, shutting my eyes. It was his pressured, quivering demand, his shaky little way of putting his foot down. Of demanding an answer and proving he's serious. It was adorable. I just wanted him to _stop_. "I really don't know Tweeks. I guess, maybe I wouldn't mind working in television or something. I wouldn't mind being a producer. I always liked playing that game."

"A producer?"

"Yeah, a producer. Or something along those lines, I guess."

For a minute he was silent, just shakes and quivers. "_Why_?"

Blinking, I squared my jaw, tilting my head away from him, readjusting my wall-gaze. "You can't hide when you're in front of a camera, Tweekers. When that hunk of circuits and plastic is pointed at you, it catches everything. Every twist your mouth makes, every flutter in your eyes, every blush and shiver. When a camera's pointed at you, it catches everything, all your secrets, you're entire personality, they're laid bare, offered up to a cold, calculating viewer. And no matter how well you act, the lies you tell, the smiles and congratulations you fake, someone will always be able to see right though you. They _know_. And that, that's just brilliant."

I felt him try adjust himself again, pressing his hand against the mattress, only a whisper away from mine. Without thinking, I reached out, gripping his wrist and holding it there. Holding him there. For a minute we were silent, him propped up awkwardly in the rough area to my left, me just lying there, my eyes shut, just clutching onto his wrist, tensing my fingers round the warm skin, the bones and tendons and veins, his heartbeat, too fast, too pressured and jacked too be human. For a minute I just clutched him. For a minute the dead pineapple cherry thing in my chest might just have shown a little sign of residual life.

Then I remembered myself. I remembered _him_. So I just blinked, and let him go. Without a word, I pulled myself to my feet, brushed the creases out of my clothes, and left.

I just fucking left.


	11. Again and Again

I spent Saturday morning cracking eggs with Tweek. He just stood there, this little shaking thing, repetitively cracking eggs. I just stood behind him, my hands guiding his wrists, my chest occasionally brushing up against his back. My face hovering dangerously close to his mess of hair. And it sucked. It sucked so, so much. It was beginning to really rather hurt, being this close to him, brushing up against him, having him _there_. And knowing I couldn't. Knowing if I did, if I took one step closer, if I broke the golden rule and committed the cardinal sin, knowing it would be brilliant. Knowing it'd make me the most awful human being on earth. Because Tweek couldn't handle that, he couldn't handle the implications, he couldn't handle the emotions and the crazy and the haywire, not from _anyone_. But especially not from _me_. Not from the one person who was supposed to be protecting him from the crazy. Not from his best _friend_.

He just wasn't strong enough for it, not yet. Maybe not ever. He wouldn't be able to cope. He was just… Just too _broken_ for it.

We didn't talk. Any conversation attempted by either of us would have been horrific, forced and empty. So we just didn't talk. I just stood there, guiding him like a puppet, he just stood there, receptive to my every motion and movement. And it hurt, but I ignored it, I just focused on guiding his hands. I just focused on cracking those eggs, splitting them, one at a time, again and again. Crack, eggmess, discard the shells, do it again.

Dimly I was wondering if I needed to go back to Denver already. I didn't want to, I really didn't want to. It didn't work the last time, it hadn't eased it up at all. I was still stuck here, with all this awful, dangerous stuff welling up in my chest, with nothing to show for _that_ nights adventures, no catharsis, nothing but the taste of artificial pineapples and sour cherries. Fuck, I swear that scent, those tastes, I swear they'll haunt me to my grave. I was tempted to blame him, the collage guy and his trashheap of an apartment and his fruit bowl inspired sex paraphernalia. I was tempted to try brush it off as a fluke, a wrong fit, just a one off. I could just pretend it'd still work, I just needed to go back, find someone different. Someone less like _he'd_ been. Someone less… Pineapplely.

But no. He'd been just like the rest of them. A nameless face, no better, no worse. Perfectly capable, nothing spectacular. It's _that_, that whole fuck-them-and-run thing, it's _Denver_, it wasn't working anymore. It still gave me the same shame and the hatred, but it wouldn't allow me to forget. All the bad and none of the good.

No, if I wanted to distract myself from this, if I wanted to distract myself from _him_, his stupid gravity defying sticky mess of hair, his shakes and paranoia, his manicness, everything he was, his brilliance, if I wanted to distract myself from it, I'd need a more pressing distraction. I'd need something closer to _home_.

I frowned, gently tugging Tweeks hand from the nearly exhausted sheet of eggs, to the edge of the bowl, guiding him down sharply, just one hit, then open like a book. Again and again, guiding his hand, cracking the egg, trying to hammer it into him, trying to make it automatic, muscle memory, a reflex.

It was a heavy weight, a horrific realisation. I was getting out of hand with him, all these stupid little things I kept on doing, all these stupid, dangerous things I kept on saying. Last night, all that shit I'd said, what I'd _done_. If I wanted to keep myself in check, keep myself from fucking him up past the point of no return, breaking him, _hurting_ him, I needed a better distraction. I needed someone who was there, pressing into my consciousness every day, every minute, someone I couldn't ignore or forget. Someone who'd be able to distract me. I needed to start fucking someone from South Park.

I sighed, shutting my eyes. Tweek felt it, and started slightly. "What-what's wrong?"

I blinked. "Nothing. Let's just keep cracking these eggs."

"We can… We can stop, if you're bored?"

I pursed my lips slightly. "No, we better keep going. It'd be a shame to stop now. You're getting better at it." I lied. He was just as shaky and discoordinated as he'd always been. Tweek knew that too. He made some disapproving, disbelieving little yelp-grunt, pressing his back against me. I just shrugged against him, willing him to move away. Willing him to never move again. Willing him to just stay there, pressed against me, shaking, quivering, all coffee, all _real_. Willing him to just stand there until the Armageddon came.

I cleared my throat. "Well, whatever. We'll finish up the sheet anyway, we'll stop then."

"Alright." Tweek shrugged against me. I swallowed hard, reaching for his wrists again.

xxx

xxx

xxx

"Party tonight."

"Oh, _joy_!"

"Sarcasm is cheap, Craig. We live in South Park. Getting drunk and acting stupid is pretty much all we _have_ here."

"Now that's _not_ true. We have a _lot_! Fuck, insane shit goes down in this town every _fucking _week. It's fucking _unbelievable_ the amount of crap we have to deal with! We have to live with _fucking_ Cartman, for God's sake!"

"Yeah, but all that shit's not _fun_. Parties are _fun_!"

"You and I have different definitions of fun. Carnivals are fun. Video games are fun. Guinea pigs are _fun_! Getting drunk in some shit-ass house with all the pissants from school, yeah, that's not so fun."

"God, you're such a _dick_, you know that?"

"Yup." I sighed, pressing my shoulders back against the dido rail that circled Token's kitchen. I'd told Tweek I was going to get more eggs. I'd left with no intention of getting more eggs. I couldn't deal with it anymore, with having him _there_, in front of me, shaking, vibrating, just standing there whilst I practically _spooned_ him. I'd needed a break. So I told him I'd go get more eggs, I'd left him standing there, and I'd walked to Token's.

I was sitting in his kitchen, watching him fuck about as he made some unpronounceable, pathetically posh sandwich type thing, watching as he fiddled with jars and bottles and premium European meats and rather unpleasant French cheeses. Watching as he utilized pointless gadgets invented solely for an upper class who possessed too much money and too little sense. And who liked shiney things that cluttered up your kitchen countertops.

After a while of silent brooding, Token cleared his throat, glancing up from his premium, shiny, will-toast-a-picture-of-your-family-crest-onto-your-bread sandwich iron, obviously fighting some sort of internal battle. "Listen Craig, do… Do you want to… To talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Talk about whatever it is that's got you so…" He hesitated, his hands poised in some kind of middling, wavering gesture. "So much more _wangsty_ then usual? Jesus Christ, I know you've never been _personable_, but recently you're becoming flat out _unbearable_, you know?"

"Oh, _thanks_! I love you too, Token!"

"I'm not trying to _insult_ you Craig." He sat down in front of me, straddling a chair, all worried brown eyes and money and good looks and pointlessly pretentious _sandwiches_. "I'm you're _friend_. And as stupid as it is, I actually do _care_ about you, you know?"

I sighed, pressing my cold fingertips to my temple, rubbing my forehead. "I'm _fine_ Token. Nothing's the matter with me."

"Well that's clearly a lie! Something's crawled up your ass and _nested_ there Craig."

"Oh, what, you want me to confess? Confess to all the shitty things I've done, confess to what a horrible person I am?"

"I just want to _help_ you Craig!"

"Forgive me father for I have sinned!" I was snapping at him. He didn't deserve it, he had only been trying to help me. But I couldn't help it. I was overwrought and stuck it turmoil. I just wanted to let it out, shout at someone, vent and scream and yell it to the clouds. I just wanted… I just… I just had no idea what to do.

Token scowled at me, picking at his toastie. "Oh, go to hell, Craig. I was only trying to _help_!"

"It's been… Five months since my last confession!"

"Seriously dude, I was only trying to _help_. You don't need to be such a _dick_ about it. Fuck."

"I've had sex. A lot of sex. A lot of very, very angry sex. With a lot of different men. With a lot of _strangers_. And it's starting to mess me up!"

"Oh, just fuck o-"

"And I feel something for someone I shouldn't, and it's messing me up. It's starting to mess him up too. I'm starting to mess him up. There's no need for all this mess. It's already too messy. Everything, it's all just so fucking _messy_!"

Token paused, frowning slightly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know. I honest to God don't know. I just… I just needed to tell someone, I guess. It feels like… Like… It feels like I'm about to _fracture_." I pressed both hands to my face, pressing my cold fingers to the warm skin, desperate to cool myself down, clear everything up.

"Who is it?"

"What?"

"Who do you feel something for?"

"It doesn't _matter_, Token! That's not the important thing here!"

"Stan? Clyde? Kenny?" I just snorted at him, my fingers still pressed against my forehead. "It's not… It's not me, is it?"

I deadpanned him a look. "No. It's not you. It's _really_, _really_ not you!"

"Well, thanks for _that_! But I… I don't really get what's messing you up so much? Are you really this bad at dealing with _feelings_? They're not really that hard, you know."

"No, it's not the _feelings_ thing. It's… It's because it's not _working_!"

"_What's_ not working?"

"Usually I fuck them, and forget it. I forget it _all_. I forget their faces, I forget _them_, and for a while… For a while I forget how much of a bitch it is, all this stupid love shit. Him, this _town_. But not this time. Something went wrong this time." I made some throaty growl, kicking at the table leg. Missing the table leg. "It always worked before. I don't get why it isn't working _now_!"

Token shrugged. "Maybe you're just becoming immune to it? There're only so many times you can self-medicate before you build up a tolerance."

"But why it's making me feel so _awful_."

"Because it's cheating."

I frowned. "No, it's not. I'm not dating him. I'm not dating _anyone_."

"It's still cheating. Infidelity isn't the only way to cheat, you know. Fucking someone when you're in love with someone else is cheating. It's cheating _something_; yourself, your emotions, your heart, _whatever_. Thinking you can displace those kinds of feelings by being overly promiscuous, it's still _cheating_."

"Well what the fuck else am I supposed to do!"

Token shrugged, absently handling his lunch. It was beginning to fall apart on his plate. "You could try being _honest _about it, to whoever it is, to _yourself_. You could tell the _truth_, you could do it the right way. You could try, you know, _being fucking happy for once_, Craig."

I snorted. "Life doesn't work that way Token, don't be _stupid_. It's not that _easy_. You know that!"

Token pursed his lips, glancing away. "Whatever you say, Craig."

* * *

><p>AN – Ahhaha, early ninja update. Surprise! Also, drunk party scenes usually indicate the actual plot is about to occur, so hey ho goodbye to all this pointless angsty angst! Anyhoo, thank you thank you for reading and sticking with it even though it's going slow! Uber awesome epic loves and thank you thank you's for reviewing, it always makes me feel so lovely and warm and motivated and thanks you thank you soso muches. Loves loves love.


	12. Nothing and Everything

I hated parties. But then, I'm pretty sure everyone hates parties. They're like nightclubs. Sure, people act like they like them, like they enjoy the shit music, the shit company, and the even shitter drinks. They act like they enjoy getting pissed and stumbling about, gripping each other like lusty hookers, making complete idiots of themselves, making complete idiots of each other, but they're lying. No-one can enjoy any of that shit. The only reason people act like they like parties are because people want sex, and people are stupid; they'll act like they like something that everyone else likes, simply because they want to fit in or find someone to fuck. They want to assimilate with the herd, conform to the conformists, shag the bicycles, whatever it is Dylan and those guys are always bitching about.

I was leaning against a wall, fidgeting with my bottle, frowning out across the room. Bebe had awful taste in music, utterly generic, utterly undefinable. One minute we'd be listening to some shitty collage rock, then the track would change, and we'd be listening to some overly synthesised dance track, then some thumping, pointless rap song. So many genres, so many songs. Yet not a single one of them was any good.

Marsh and Broflovski were sitting on the sofa, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, just like the poofters they were. They were clutching slightly damp, pilfered beer bottles, laughing and nothing, their faces skyward, already a little bit gone. McCormick was sitting on an arm, watching them with misplaced clarity, his own mouth forced into an artificial smirk. His own eyes dead, completely void of laughter. Completely void of happiness.

Exhaling, I pushed my way through the sporadic crowd, forcing myself through the dining room, sliding open the patio doors. The music was beginning to get to me, the people, the skank of too much perfume, too much body spray, and no where near enough deodorant. I was sick of Token's forced exitedness, the way he casually handled a bottle of obscenely expensive liquor, the way he causally leaned on the wall, the smirk he shot at unsuspecting girls, his whole fucking _demeanour_. I was sick of having to be around Tweek, sick of the way he was making me feel. Awful, but not, the worst and the best, both at the same time. It was suffocating, it made me want to claw my heart straight out my chest just so I had something to throw at somebody. Plus, there's really only so many times you can laugh at Clyde striking out before it just becomes _depressing_.

Pulling a face, I shut the door behind me, stepping across the damp, wooden patio, stepping out towards the edge. I sat down next to some froufrou potted plant, garish flowers and carefully trimmed leaves. The snow in Bebe's garden was all but melted, exposing the grassy mix of mud and water underneath. Only a few clumps of white remained, packed ice, slurry. Nothing pure. But at least it was quiet out here. The door muffled most of the sound, most of the screaming and shouting, most of the music. The thin trickle that made its way out was irritating, but only mildly so. The fresh air was a welcome relief from the stuffy, crammed party.

Besides, the sky was completely clear tonight, no moon, no clouds, no wind, only the stars, dancing about between the layers of deep blues, greys, purples, all the colours that made up the darkness. It was pretty damn beautiful, actually.

I was frowning at the sky, thinking, fumbling with my glass bottle, the labels, the slight weight of the remaining liquid. It was an imitation Jack Daniels, same shaped glass, same colour, same font, completely different taste. Not worse, not better, just different. Red had stolen it for me, from her dad's collection, the shit he brought for the bar. She'd stolen quite a lot to bring here tonight, crates of beer, bottles of spirits. Her dad never did keep a careful inventory. Maybe her dad just never _cared._

Behind me, someone slid open the doors. Blinking, I glanced apathetically over my shoulder, expecting some freshman who'd drunk to much, some silly kid looking for a place to throw up and nurse his aches. But no, it was Token, still clutching his pretentious bottle of liquor, purposely striding across the patio towards me.

"Dude, what the fuck are you doing out _here_? It's a _party_. Why don't you, you know, loosen up and _party_?"

"Only idiots _party_."

Token rolled his eyes, dropping down next to me. Not too close, but not too far. A diplomatic drunken distance. "_Seriously_? What are you PMSing about _now_? Christ Craig, what does it take for you to just switch off and _relax_?"

I shrugged. "I don't relax Token. At least not in the same way you do."

"Fuck, you're such a _misery_, Tucker."

"I'm not! _I'm fine_. I'm just… I'm just _thinking_ Token."

"Christ, well stop _thinking _then! Maybe if you didn't _think _so much, you wouldn't be so damn _depressed_! It's not that bad, you know? It could be worse, a whole, whole lot worse!"

I smiled sadly, rubbing my thumb across the bourbon bottle's slightly damp paper label, rucking it up, shredding it. "I dunno. It looks pretty shit from where I'm sitting. I mean, life isn't peachy-perfect Token. Not for guys like me. I'm not like you. I'm not rich as shit. I'm not like Marsh, or Broflovski, the world doesn't bend to my every fart and whim. I gotta do it differently, I gotta work for it. But hey, I'll do it. I'm gonna graduate. I'm going to get a job, some shit-burger flipping gig, straight off the bat. I'm going to go to community collage, work my way through a course on film production or something, and I'm going to take him, and I'm going to leave. We'll get out. It'll just take us that bit longer, we'll just have to work for it. The good, old fashioned, nice and boring way, you know?"

"Yeah, whatever you say, Craig."

For a while, we fell silent, just staring out across the garden, across the night, drinking fluidly as the party thumped and pounded on behind us. I was just thinking about nothing, nothing and everything, and how much nothing and everything hurt. I was just thinking about my bourbon, and about Kenny. I was just wondering if Kenny would be up for fucking again. He was clearly miserable. People tended to do stupid things when they're miserable. Next to me, Token was frowning at the starts, lounging back on one hand, his eyebrows dipped in thought.

"I just don't get it." He broke a silence that really didn't need to be broken. I just sighed.

"Get what?"

"If you're so sure, if you've got your boring, perfect little plans, if you've got it all figured out, why the fuck are you acting so…" He wavered his hand in front of him, pulling a face. "So _batshit insane _recently?"

"Because I'm a little bit terrified, you know?"

Token widened his eyes, staring at me. I blinked, forcing my hand over my mouth. I'd not meant to speak. I'd not meant to say anything. I guess I was a little drunk. I guess I was a little overwrought. A little to emotional. Never a pretty combination.

"You're terrified? Terrified of what?"

I swallowed, lowering my hand. "It doesn't matter."

"It obviously does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Then why did you mention it?"

I pursed my lips. I wanted him to just drop it. "I dunno. It just slipped out. Blame it on the bourbon."

"Craig, just, just _stop it_! Stop making it so hard to be your _friend_! Just tell me. Just stop being such a dick, and tell me! Like a _normal_ person would! Fuck, we're the ones that have to _live_ with you, you know!"

I sighed, glancing away from him. He was looking at me intently, like I was some massively interesting science project, some cow organ he was about to dissect, some mix of noxious chemicals, an endothermic reaction. But also a little bit like I'd actually hurt him. The dip in his eyebrows, the downward curve of his mouth, I'd actually hurt his feelings. He actually really did want to act like my friend. Frowning, I began to fumble with my bottle, caressing the corners with forced intensity.

"Oh, _whatever_." I swallowed, still refusing to meet his eyes. "I'm scared… I'm scared that it's too late, that this town… That I'll never be able to leave. I'm terrified that I'll be stuck here, left sitting at my uncles bar, just going madder and madder, just becoming part of the scenery, part of South Park. Then before you know it, I'll be part of the mobs, then I'll be the starter of the mobs, and this whole fucked up charade will start again. Different generation, same old story. I'm terrified it's already seeped into my bloodstream, my brainstem. I'm terrified… That I'll never be able to get Tweek out of here, that South Park… I'm terrified this town is going to kill him."

Token smiled slightly, wan and sad. "I think it's a bit too to be worrying about that. I mean, just _look_ _at_ _him_, Craig."

I frowned, shifting uncomfortably on the patio. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Christ Craig, just _look at him_. You really shouldn't worry about getting him out of South Park. It's _too late_. He's already… He's already _broken_, this town, it's already got to him. It's already _in_ him. It's been in him since elementary school. You can't take him, you can't _leave_ with him; he won't survive out of South Park. He can't manage out there in the _real_ world, it's too late, fuck, they'll lock him up out there, the therapists, the doctors, all the_ normal fucking people_. There _might_ still be a chance for _you_, but… But not for him. It's too late. He's stuck here."

I felt something rise in my throat, I wasn't quite sure if it was bile, or anger, or my heart, or what. Something was going haywire in my chest, some mixture of unidentifiable emotions. Some mixture of _very _identifiable emotions, but emotions I was refusing to identify. Because fuck Token, Token didn't know shit about anything besides fucking Wendy and stupid, fancy, crest-embossed toasted cheese sandwiches. "You're fucking wrong." Even to me, my voice sounded hollow, gutted, dark. Like it wasn't sure if I actually believed every word I was saying, or if I actually believed none of them.

Next to me, Token shifted, exhaling deeply. "I'm not, Craig. He needs to stay here. He needs his dad's coffee shop, he needs his parents. He needs to be surrounded by the madness and the mountains, secluded in a community where people don't ask questions, where people don't look too hard. He needs to be surrounded by the madness of South Park, because it stops people looking too closely at the madness in _him_." I pursed my lips, gazing darkly at the muddy, slushy mess of a garden. Token was still watching me intently, I felt his gaze bearing into my face. Compassionate and concerned. Just like a friend should be. Just like he'd been taught to. "Look, Craig, if it makes you feel any better, once Stan and those guys piss off to college, once they've fucked off, South Park'll probably end up being pretty damn boring. He'll be okay."

"_We'll_ be okay."

"What?"

"I'm not leaving without him. I am _not_ just going to abandon him in this godforsaken shithole!"

"Oh, _come on_ Craig. I get that you're trying to do all this loyal, friendship shit, _I get it_, but this is _Tweek_ we're talking about! He needs a stability that you just _cannot_ offer him! Your moods, your dickheadness, your own fucked up emotions, all that shit you do in _Denver._ How little you really actually _care_. All the shit you put him through, you'll only end up hurting him. You'll only end up _breaking _him!"

Cursing bitterly, I pulled myself to my feet, flipping Token off as I did. I didn't care what he thought, or what he had to say, I was refusing to digest it, refusing to let anything in. Refusing to recognize any truth his words might have. Because he was wrong. Absolutely, wholly. I would _never _hurt Tweek, never break him. Everything I did was to _protect _him, absolutely everything I did, I did to keep him _safe_.

With one last spat curse, I strode across the patio, sliding open the glass door, leaving Token alone with the stars.

* * *

><p>AN - Ah, MerryChristmasUpdate (Or MerryBoxingDayUpdate here, but hey, timezones timezones). Either way, I hope you had a lovely candyfloss Christmas (to those who celebrate it. If you don't, I hope you had a lovely candyfloss regular Sunday) and got lots of lovely presents and had lots of Christmassy foodstuffs. Anyhoot, thank you thank you for reading, hope hope you're enjoying it, and superman thankyouthankyous for reviewing, is so awesome and lovely and flowers and stuff. Loves loves loves love.

And SomeoneCMary, dishwasher poached egg... I hope that wasn't intentional. It sounds pretty Heston Blumenthal, and not in the good way.


	13. Cold and Cruel

I don't quite know where I got my next bottle. I don't quite know where I got the one after that. One minute my hands were empty, the next they weren't. I'm pretty sure someone had pressed them against me, Red, Bebe, Powder, some chick who had way too much liquor and way too little sense. But hey, for all I can remember, I might well have stolen it. It wouldn't have been hard, I could well have wrenched it out of some kid's weak grip, appropriated it out of drunken hands. Just taken it. That seems like the kind of dickish thing I'd do.

Either way, I got it. Either way, it got me. After the third bottle of imitation brand liquor, my memory became pretty sporadic. My actions became pretty stupid, pretty belligerent. I remember taking to Red in the hallway, leaning backwards against the wall as she whined on about something, I think Clyde was irritating her, I think she was asking me to make him stop. I'm relatively certain I told her to go to hell. I'm pretty sure I called her a bitch, but that could have been Wendy. I did something to upset Wendy, I remember her face, her anger. I remember running into Stan in the kitchen, he was standing over the kitchen sink, frowning out the window. Frowning at Kenny or Kyle or someone, someone was doing something stupid outside. I remember trading half-assed insults, I remember flipping him off, I remember staggering away. I remember talking to Token again, I remember calling him something obscene, I remember cursing him out. Then all I really remember is Tweek.

He was in front of me. Well, technically, I was in front of him. I was pinning him backwards, against a wall, against a dresser, I don't know. Against something solid. We were pretty much alone, shut away in a bedroom or something. Someplace upstairs, someplace out of the throng of drunken people, someplace quiet. Someplace I really shouldn't have been, not alone, especially not with him. Bedrooms at parties always forewarned danger, danger and mistakes.

My mouth was open, I was pressing it against his head, against his hair. I was talking to him, attempting to kiss him, I _was_ kissing him, I was just doing it in some new, innovative way. A way that left me with a mouthful of hair, and very little composure. He tasted fairly unpleasant. I mean, _everyone's_ hair tastes unpleasant, but his uniquely so. It tasted like coffee, and ADHD, and sweat, and barsoap, and grease. And… And underneath it all, underneath everything Tweek-ish, there was the undeniable scent of cigarettes. I'd peppered myself across him, across his hair, across his life: I'd left traces of myself in his clothes, in his house, his bedroom, on his bed. I was there, underneath the scent of coffee and paranoia, I'd left behind the scent of cigarettes, the scent of me. I'd marked him. And there was really nothing he could do about it.

I was walking a very fine line, drunker then I thought I was, sober enough to know it. Sober enough to know I was being stupid, dangerous. Sober enough for Token's words to still be echoing round my head, gnawing away at my certainty, worming their way into me, leaving me feeling reckless, forcing me to face my doubts. Drunk, reckless, and emotional. I should have left the party the second I realised that. But hey, I was no stranger when it came to making mistakes.

I remember pulling away for a minute, blinking down at him, just watching him. I remember his eyes, those wide, wide brown eyes. I remember leaning in closer, pressing myself against him, against his shaking, terrified form. I remember forcing our mouths together, I remember forcing his lips open. I remember coffee. It was always coffee with him. Every little thing about him, he was soaked in coffee, stained by it. No matter what, when it came to him, it was always fucking _coffee_.

He just stood there. I remember his hands, he was clutching the front of my shirt, gripping handfuls of fabric. I wasn't sure if he was trying to push me away, or if he was trying to pull me closer. I doubt even he knew. He was just standing there, shaking, terrified, completely robotic, just letting me get on with it. He was just letting me do it, letting me do whatever the fuck it was I wanted too.

Then I came to my senses.

Blinking slightly, I excused myself, I pulled my face away from his, lifting my arm off his shoulders. I had no idea what to say, how to explain away what I'd just been doing, what excuses I could make, how to fix this. So I didn't even try. For a minute I just looked at him, my gaze hazy, drunken, his eyes clear and sharp, sober. He really wasn't drunk, not even a little bit. Not at all. I just blinked, and turned away. I just left. I left him standing there, backed against a wall, utterly confused, and completely shaken.

I reasoned that come tomorrow, I'd blame it on the alcohol. I'd pretend I didn't remember, I'd pretend I'd just been joking. I'd lie, pretend I didn't mean it, it didn't mean anything, I'd pretend all sorts of awful, untrue things. I'd tell him that's just what I do, because fuck it, I'm Craig Tucker. I'm a _dick_.

I jumped down the stairs two at a time, dodging the people sprawled across the carpet. I was fidgeting with a cigarette, drunkenly trying to work my lighter. Bebe had told us not to smoke inside. She'd told us not to do a lot of things inside, but no-one had listened to her. No one ever listened to her. I don't quite know why she bothers anymore. Lip service, I guess.

Exhaling a mouthful of smoke, I felt Red grab my arm, she was attempting to pull me into the living room. She probably wanted me to put out the cigarette, or join a party game, or play spin-the-bottle, or do something else I really had no intention of doing. I just flipped her off, pulling away, forcing my way through the throng of people, pushing a path through to the kitchen, pushing my way outside. Back onto the patio, back into the muddy, slush covered garden. I needed some cold air, I needed to sober up. I needed to go home, I needed to _sleep_. I needed to forget about it, forget about _him_, forget about what I'd just been about to do. I needed to drive to Denver, I needed to find Kenny. I needed to do something stupid. Something I'd regret.

Next to me, someone mumbled something, causing me to start slightly, frowning though the darkness. Kyle was there, slumped against the bricks. He was pissed, completely and utterly, all but passed out, clinging to the wall, desperate for the stability. I glared at him, reaching out, tilting his chin up. He barely reacted, he mumbled something at me, he attempted to brush me away. It was all fairly pathetic. He was far too hammered to do anything meaningful. He shouldn't be here, not alone, not when he was this passed it. Someone should be watching out for him. Fuck, someone should be taking him _home_.

My hand went to his cheek automatically, emotionlessly, holding his face still, steady. He was freezing, his skin icy underneath my fingertips. He'd clearly been outside for quite a while. Stan had probably left him here, left him to sober up. I just smirked lightly, leaning into him, forcing our lips together, trying to force Tweek out of my mind. Desperate for _anyone_, _anything_, desperate to repress all the stupid, aching _emotions_.

Kyle was fairly bad at it. Even drunk, he was hesitant and reproachful, apologetic and unrhythmical, stilted, organised and refined. Kissing him was like talking politics with him, stuffy and proper, forced and conversational. I wasn't used to that; I was used to wildness, flurry, fury, anger, and shame. Still, for someone with more pause and patience, for someone who actually _wanted_ him, Kyle could probably be enjoyable. Hit the right notes, say the right things, make him feel like he wasn't doing it wrong, hey, he might stand a chance.

The seconds were dragging on. Bebe was shrieking about something, her voices shrill over everyone else, echoing from room to room. Echoing outside, disappearing into the darkness. She really seemed to be the only one having fun here. Maybe she was the only one still drunk enough. It was already well passed midnight, people were already either passed out, or beginning to sober back up. The party was pretty much over.

I sighed against Kyle, frowning slightly. He felt weird. Not bad, per se, but different. He smelt like his house, like the Eastern Seaboard, delis, bagels, orange juice, like himself, like sweat, sandalwood and alcohol and some undefined citrus thing. I guess he just felt like Judaism, like Israel or something. I guess he just felt of Jewishness.

It was really pretty damn depressing. He didn't smell like coffee, or nervousness, or twitching, or anything _real_, anything tangible, anything exciting. He was dull, dull and tempered, and completely hammered. He didn't feel a thing like Tweek. Nobody ever felt a thing like Tweek. Only Tweek could feel like Tweek. And that was just heartbreaking.

Someone grabbed his arm, wrenching us apart. Kyle was glaring at me drunkenly, his eyes lidded and unfocused. It must've been fairly unpleasant for him, kissing me. At least with Tweek, he had the coffee. Coffee cuts through cigarettes like peanut butter cuts though banana. I taste like ash, he tastes like dregs. It'd been a fair trade. Kyle tasted vaguely of vodka and mint and sandwiches, easily overwhelmed nothingness. I guess now he'll taste of ash. Everything always turns to ash.

Stan was clutching him against his chest, glowering at me, his face dark. He was furious, utterly and completely furious. I just grinned at him, cold and cruel, saluting him with my middle finger. It was a struggle to see him, the shadows of the empty night, no moon, no starts, the alcohol haze, it was hard to make out the details.

For a second he just glared at me, for a second I thought he was going to punch me, floor me for taking advantage of his too drunk best friend. For doing something stupid. But he didn't. He just left, wrenching Kyle away, spitting curses over his shoulder, he just left. He left me standing there, grinning cruelly into the darkness, drunk, and completely lost. Because fuck it, I really had no idea what I was doing anymore.

* * *

><p>AN – Then suddenly, there was plot! And Craig being stupid! And the beginning of the end! Ahah! Happy New Year, guys, hope it's a candyfloss one! Thank you thank you for reading, hope you're enjoying it! Uber super duper thank you thank you's for reviewing it, is so lovely and awesome and yay! Loves loves love!


	14. Dog Mouthed and Hazy

I remember sliding down the rough, wet bricks. I remember clutching my head, resting it between my legs, I remember the pain, the dizziness, the overwhelming wave, the alcohol and regret induced nausea. Then I remember nothingness. Wonderful, smothering nothingness. I guess I passed out or something, maybe I just fell asleep. Maybe I just checked out for a few hours, I don't know. It doesn't matter. All I know is one minute I was trying hard not to upchuck, the next minute I was blinking myself awake, dog mouthed and hazy.

Dylan was standing next to me, his back pressed casually against the wall, his arms crossed casually across his chest. He was toying with a cigarette, smoking it slowly, holding it loosely between his lips as he glared out across the night, squinting through the empty darkness, squinting into the empty night.

Exhaling, I groaned, rubbing my fingertips across my face, massaging my temples. My hands were freezing. My face was freezing. Everything was freezing. I wasn't wearing a jacket, the early, early morning temperatures had dropped dangerously low; without the warm ache of alcohol, I'd be lucky to avoid hypothermia. Staying out here had been stupid. But then, getting drunk had been stupid. kissing Kyle had been stupid, coming to this party had been stupid. Driving down to Denver had been stupid. Pineapple condoms and cherry lube had been stupid. Falling in love with my FUBAR best friend had been stupid. Everything I did was stupid. I was just stupid. Always, always so fucking stupid.

"You're awake. I was beginning to think you'd died." Dylan had shifted, uncrossing his arms, leaning forward, just peering down at me.

I smiled wryly. "Nope, no such luck."

"Well, there's always tomorrow. We live in hope."

"Yeah, we live in hope." Sighing slightly, I pressed my fingers back to my temple. I had a headache, a really, really aching headache. An awful, horrendous, throbbing headache. Dylan was still watching me. I could feel him, feel his eyes, transfixed to the side of my face like some kind of hawk. Keeping my fingers pressed against my face, I cleared my throat. "I didn't know you guys were here. Don't you usually shun these, er, _conformist_ gatherings? You're usually so high-and-mighty. I'm surprised you'd stoop to our lowly level."

"It's just me."

"What?"

"It's not 'you guys'. It's just me. I'm the only one here. I came alone. The others are still at Denny's, or something."

I frowned. "Why?"

"Why what? Why are they at Denny's? The coffee, I'd wager."

"Why come alone? Surely that defeats the point of all this… All this socialising, _party _shit."

He shrugged. "I dunno. Thought I'd come check it out, you know? See the dregs. Observe the sheep and their mating rituals. Mingle with the herd. See if there was anyone who wanted to come… Wanted to come _play_, you know?"

"_Playing_ with the sheep? How _conformist_ Dylan; I'm disappointed in you."

He smiled dryly. "Desperate times call for desperate measures Tucker. You know that better then anyone."

"I guess." He was staring at me, his cold eyes keen, shining in the night. I just lowered my eyebrows, glaring back up at him. His fixed, unblinking gaze was beginning to give me the creeps. After a few more minutes of silent staring, I cleared my throat, looking away. "Seriously Dylan, what?"

"What what?"

"What are you _staring _for? Christ, you're freaking me out."

"I'm just thinking."

"About _what_."

He paused for a second, crushing his used butt with the toe of his shoe, casually rolling a new, unlit cigarette between his thumb and index finger. "You're a lot like Marsh, you know. Only lanky. And a dick."

"Dude, don't _insult _me."

He raised his eyebrows. "Seriously? Dude, you _redefine _what it means to be a dick. This can't be a startling revelation."

"I'm not talking about _that_! I _know_ I'm a dick. Fuck, I'm pretty much a bona fide _cunt_! I'm talking about the Marsh thing. There's absolutely no need to compare me to that _pussy_! Christ, man, that's just _offensive_."

He laughed, a breathy, short bark. It seemed vaguely foreign, vaguely impossible, some alien noise when it came from him. He shouldn't laugh, he was like me. People like me didn't laugh. Biting my lip, I looked away, absently fumbling though my pockets, searching for my own cigarettes. Dylan just watched me, a slight smirk marring his face. After a while I paused, frowning into the darkness. "Did you steal my fucking cigarettes?" He shrugged, turning his gaze back out across the horizon. I just stared at him, my mouth hanging slightly open. "Dude, give me back my cigarettes!"

"Why should I?"

"Because they're _my_ cigarettes!"

"You snooze you loose Tucker."

"Fuck, how _old_ are you?"

"That's _rich_, coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, give me a break! When it comes to acting like a _child_, you're top of the fucking class!"

"Fuck, cry me a _river_, emo kid!"

"Christ, stop being such a _tit_ Tucker. Just be thankful I didn't take your wallet too!"

I just groaned, clutching my head. "Oh fuck, I'm too sober for this _shit_."

Dylan pursed his lips, leaning down to pluck something off the patio next to him. "Here." He was pressing a bottle against my shoulder, tapping the glass against the thin cotton of my shirt.

"What is it?"

"Oh, like it _matters_! It's heavily alcoholic and maybe slightly dangerous."

"Maybe slightly dangerous?"

He pulled a face. "It's… It should be _fine. _Just… Just don't drink too much. There's a small chance…Well, it might blind you or… Or something." I deadpanned him a glare, he just rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be so _conformist_ Tucker. It's not like _sight_ is so important. Christ, what the fuck is there to see _here_? Cows? Snow? _Broflovski's fat arse_? No great loss, not in my opinion."

"_Why are you here_, Dylan?"

"I _told_ you. I'm looking for a _playmate_."

"No, I mean out here. On this patio. Irritating _me_."

He wrinkled his nose, turning his face away. "It doesn't have anything to do with _you_ Tucker, don't be so vain. Perhaps… Perhaps it's just a coincidence. Perhaps I just wanted to get some fresh air."

"_Perhaps_ you should stop bullshitting. _Perhaps_ you should just cut to the fucking chase."

"Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you should kiss me."

I blinked. "Perhaps I should."

"Perhaps you should do more then that. Perhaps _we_ should do more then that. Perhaps you should fuck me."

I reeled slightly at his abruptness. I wasn't used to them being _that_ abrupt. "Why on earth would _I_ do that?"

"I'll give you back your cigarettes."

"More importantly, why on earth would _you _do that?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps I just have a soft spot for noir and brooding. But it doesn't matter anyway. I really have no intention of keeping your cigarettes. The stuff you smoke is _crap_."

"Oh, well I'm sorry my conformist nicotine doesn't _appease_ your refined pallet, you self-righteous _cock_."

He raised an eyebrow. He was smiling slightly, faintly, the ghost of a quirk turning up the corner of his lip, the shadow of it behind his eyes. He was trying to hide it, but he wasn't succeeding. He was too close to me. I could still tell.

He was warm. He pressed his lips against mine, I cupped my hand under his chin. Holding him steady, forcing him still. He was warm, warm and soft, feisty and forceful, wet, but already ashed. Already, he tasted of ash, cigarettes and cheap, badly made alcohol. He was already burned and broken, already destroyed. There really wasn't anything more I could do to him, not anything that hadn't been done long, long ago.

It was an awkward position, him part-crouching, part-kneeling down, me just sitting there, my back still pressed against the cold bricks, my knees still pressed against my chest. I probably should have stood up, but then Dylan was pretty fucking short. I would have loomed over him. I loom over everyone. It was quite nice to be the one loomed over for once.

Besides, this was sort of what I'd asked for, it was what I _needed_. He was what I needed. A distraction, someone closer to home. Dylan, pockmarked, sallow, quick witted. And soft, underneath all the hardness, a running fault line of vulnerability, softly spoken, desperate to be accepted, if not by _the_ crowd, by _his_ crowd. He was human. He wasn't above carnal desires. He needed his fix just as much as I did.

Someone slammed their hand against the patio door, causing the glass to vibrate, forcing us to start apart. Token was standing there, clutching hold of Tweek's arm, starting down at him with mild shock. Tweek just shook his head, pulling back from him, pulling away.

Cursing slightly, I pulled myself to my feet, spreading out my hand, gesturing at Dylan to stay. Dylan just pursed his lips, turning his face away from me. "Just hurry up, Tucker."

Exhaling, I pulled open the patio door, stepping out of the cold, the dark, the empty night, into the party-wrecked, the orange, the tacky little kitchen. The party was pretty much dead; only a few stray idiots were still hanging about, downing the last drops of alcohol, chatting aimlessly, laughing drunkenly, stumbling from room to room. Either that, or they were passed out on the floor, sleeping it off on the furniture. Being stupid. Doing whatever.

Tweek was standing in the middle of the linoleum floor, glaring at me, his arms crossed loosely across his front, his stance unsteady, swaying. He was drunk. He never got drunk, never usually drank, never had the capability. Yet here he was, he was drunk. He was drunk and _angry_, angry at me. Angry about the whole kiss thing. The whole, stupid, stupid kiss thing. Both the kiss things, the him kiss thing, and the Dylan kiss thing. All the stupid kiss things. Every fucking kiss thing. He was angry about everything, everything I did to him, everything I put him through. All the times I ran away. All the times I fucked him over.

I felt a bubble of awful, dangerous emotions rise in my chest, threatening something, something I really did not want to be threatened with. Swallowing, I looked away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, repressing the emotions. Repressing everything.

This was for the best. Everything I did, I did to protect him. I had to repress it all. I had to distract myself. I didn't matter. None of it really _mattered_.

"Dude," Token was speaking to me, his voice low and pressured. Blinking, I glanced up at him, crossing my arms across my chest. "Tweek needs to go home."

"So? Take him home then. Dude, I'm sort of in the middle of something, yeah?"

"I can't take him home! Craig, his parents will _kill_ him."

"So? Take him to _your_ house then."

"I can't take him to _my _house! My parents would _kill_ me!"

"Well, take him back to my house then!" I hissed it at him, digging my keys out from my pocket, offering them to him, holding them in front of his face with a pointed, forced glare. "Just take him _somewhere_! I don't care _where_: just, just take him away from _here_!"

"Dude, why _me_? Why don't _you_ do it? I'm relatively _certain_ this is your fault!"

"I'm-I'm-" I glanced back at the patio door, glanced back to where Dylan was lurking. Exhaling, I pressed my fingers to my temple, shooting Token a leading look, lowering my voice as I did. "I'm kind of _busy_ at the moment, Token! I'll deal with it _later_. Just… Just _please_, alright? I sort of… I _need_ this!"

Token was standing there, watching me with his arms crossed and his face set. I was glaring at him, my hand positioned inches away from his face, dangling my keys from a cracked, ancient keyring. It'd been a fuzzy hamster once, long ago. It was unrecognisable now, beat up and broken beyond all recognition. Dimly I realised I sort of knew how it felt. Beat up, broken. Destroyed.

After a while, a war of frosty, anger filled glaring, Token looked away, snatching the keys out of my grips, shaking his head with mild disgust. "You destroy _everything_, Craig!"

* * *

><p>AN - Sorry sorry for not putting this up yesterday, wouldn't let me log on for some reason. Ah well. Hope hope you're enjoying reading it, there's probs about five or so chapters left now. Thank you thank you so so muches for reviewing, is awesomesauces :3


	15. Screws and Shrapnel

Dylan was interesting. Dylan was always interesting. He was interesting in a dark, bitey, clichéd sort of way. An expected sort of way. A boring sort of way. Dylan was transparent, he wore everything about himself plastered across the exterior, the most interesting facets of his personality he wore sprawled across his face. Really, there wasn't much more hidden behind the clothes and the hair and the luridly bright shoes. One look and you knew his life story. One look and you knew what you were getting. One look and you knew he was boring. Nice and boring. Nice and boring, and not a thing like Tweek.

He'd been pleasurable, I wouldn't ever deny him that. It's quite hard for the act not to be pleasurable. But pleasurable isn't always good though, pleasure can be empty, sickening, dangerous. Horrific. Pleasure can be a pleasure dome, built by Kubla Khan, glitz and gold, glitter and diamonds, filled with exquisite, awful things. An escape, four walls, four cold, cold brick walls. Empty, lonely. Constricting, confining, solitude. A prison. A jail. A life sentence full of wonderful, awful things. Empty, worthless things.

Dylan'd been mechanical. He knew what to do, I knew what to do, we didn't bother to make eye contact. He sat over me, chest to chest, I gripped his hair, I pulled his head back, I exposed his neck. He gripped my back, he dug his nails in deep, deep enough to draw blood, deep enough for it to hurt. He relished in it, in my bitten curses, the spitted insults, angry, violent. He clawed at me, dragging his hands down, gouging me. I felt the trickle of blood, warm and viscose, I felt him laugh as I tightened my fingers, knotting them in his hair, yanking it, jarring his head back. Rough and unforgiving, carnal, animal pleasure. Blood and barebacked, no lube, no nothing. Spit on skin, absolutely _stupid_. Just the way he wanted.

He was pretty short limbed, short stature, stunted by years upon years of nicotine abuse, alcohol abuse, sheer, unadulterated _misery_. Dirty hair, stiff with old products, course and kinked, moulded and shaped, pushed over his face, falling into his eyes, brushing against his palled skin. Imperfect skin, sallow, pockmarked, marred, scars. Striking features, unique, memorable. Handsome, even, if you looked past the make up, the dark circles under his eyes, the scarring. If you actually looked at him, and not the things he did. The way he acted.

He made smooth lines, untoned, unimpressive. Unimpressive pretty much just summed him up. But… But he had a way of moaning. A weird, soft sort of whimpering moan. I wasn't sure if I was pleasing him, if he was really really happy, if he was encouraging me, begging for more, edging for the _release_, or if he was pleading with me, whimpering, pained and uncomfortable, begging me to _stop_. There was something brilliant in that hazy uncertainty, in hearing those little noises, and just doing it anyway. Fucking him though the pleasure, fucking him through the pain. Fucking him through both. Pain and pleasure. The pleasure in the pain. Whatever, I just didn't know anymore.

I stumbled back home as the sun was coming up, freezing, still half drunk, now half hung-over. The pavement was slick with slush, frost, partially melted snow; there were still a few people about, drunken teenagers, same as me, early risers. Children, running about, causing trouble. Same as always, everything in this town was always same as always.

I just ignored them, my eyes fixed to the floor, fighting to keep my footing on the slippery paving stones, fighting to see through the dusk, my arms clutched across my chest, across the thin cotton of my shirt. I should have brought a coat, should have worn better shoes, should have brought some gloves. I should have done a lot of things, but no. I never did do the things I needed to.

My family were still asleep when I got back. At least, I assumed they were. I didn't really bother to check. Token had left the door unlocked for me, I wasn't quite sure what he'd done with my keys. I didn't care, at least not tonight. I'd try give a shit about that tomorrow, today. But not now. I didn't care about anything now. I just kicked off my shoes, jumped up the stairs, and fell through my bedroom door. I needed sleep, I needed a shower, I needed to go to bed, go to sleep, check out. I needed to get out, away from it, from everything. Dylan. This town. This fucking, shitting _town_.

My room was empty. Tweek wasn't here, not anymore. My blankets were strewn up, knotted, half on the bed, half off. He'd clearly been here, Token had clearly brought him back, put him to bed, probably tried to reassure him for a bit, but he'd left. They both had. And I didn't really blame them. It wasn't Token's job, looking after Tweek. That was mine, it'd always been mine. And Tweek… Well, I'm pretty sure Tweek wanted to get as far away from me as possible, my bed, my room, what I'd done for him, he probably wanted out too. Everyone wanted out.

I sighed, clicking my door shut behind me, rubbing my hands across my face. Tweek'd taken apart my alarm clock. Before he'd left, he'd taken it apart, and strewn the mess across my bedroom floor. Wires, plastic, circuit boards, batteries, everything, the insides, the inner workings, the screws and bolts, small metallic shapes I couldn't even identify, he'd stripped it all, pulled every little piece apart, laid every little piece down, neatly, in his own, dysfunctional, disorganised way. I'm not quite sure how he'd done it, or _why_, he just had. I don't think it was malicious. At least, I hope it wasn't malicious. More stress. The stress of it all. The stress of what I'd done. The stress of I was doing to him. He'd taken it out on the alarm clock.

I kept my icy fingers pressed to my face, tensing them against my skin. I was smiling, grinning like an idiot. Beaming into the darkness. But I wasn't happy, it wasn't happiness. It was bile, emotions, things so awful I didn't even attempt to name them. I slid down my bedroom door, my back pressed against the chipping paintwork, the aching scratch marks stinging from the friction. Still damp with blood. So many people, so many stupid, stupid people. So many tastes, so much saliva. So many mistakes and regrets. Pineapple condoms, cherry lube, Kyle, Dylan. And Tweek. So many distractions, so close to home, and still, all I thought about was Tweek. Always Tweek. Stupid, stupid Tweek. Wonderful, insane Tweek.

And all I could taste was coffee, all I could feel were the tendons, the veins, his skinny, fragile wrists. His skin, cold and clammy, the feel of his bones, so prominent. So delicate. A bird bones, a life you could hold in the palms of your hands, a life you could end on a whim, destroy. Obliterate.

Dylan had already faded into shadows, just another pressing, faceless ghost. The feel of him, the scent, the map of his body, it'd already bled to nothing, already been rendered numb and dull. Hours after, the events rendered cold and calculated, mechanical, robotic. A name, a memory, a set of fresh scars, marring my back. A series of sketchy events, only hours after the event, it already felt like something stupid I once did a long time ago. A misguided trip to Peru. A jarring, sickening presence refusing to be forgotten. A regret. _Another stupid, fucked up regret_.

Token was right. I was the one hurting him the most. I was going to _break_ him. Too dangerous, too _pathetic_. This self-induced medication no longer worked, the distractions weren't distracting. Everything was overwhelmed, overwhelmed by two wide, brown eyes, the feel of matted hair, grease and barsoap, sweat. Little green aprons, shaking, twitching, the taste of coffee. The obliterating, bulldozing taste of coffee. Always fucking _coffee_. I couldn't stop it. I wouldn't ever be able to stop it.

I was laughing. I was crying too. I was sitting there, sitting on my dirty bedroom floor, dressed in clothes that still smelt like party and alcohol and hand-rolled cigarettes and blood and sex, I was sitting there, surrounded by wires and screws and shrapnel, the dial of my alarm clock, surrounded by a war zone. I was confused, fucked up, but sure, so, so _sure_.

I was falling apart. I just couldn't do this anymore.

* * *

><p>AN – Ahaha, short chapter, I know, I'm sorrysorry, but next chapter. Goodstuff coming next chapter. It is time for the ending to begin, next chapter. Anyhow, thank you thank you for reading, hope you are enjoying it. Super thank you thank you sosomuches for reviewing, is awesomefluffcandyfloss, sorry sorry goodstuff is taking soso long, but next chapter. It is coming next chapter, I _promisefluff_. Loves loves love.


	16. Empty and Meaningless

Tweek was at Harbucks. Every time I fucked him up, he went to Harbucks. It seemed he was always at Harbucks. Either at school, or at Harbucks. I didn't want to just swan in there, not when he was working, not when there were other people around. Not after what I'd done. I figured… I figured after everything, after what had happened, after what was coming, I figured I owed him privacy. At the very least, I might as well do one thing right by him. Just one.

So I arrived as the sun was setting, and I waited; I waited in the icy, dry wind, my back pressed against the cold, wet bricks, my frame shadowed, hidden, looming. I kept myself hidden from the plate glass windows, lurking in the darkness, smoking prolifically, just out of sight. I was clutching a box of brand new eggs, clutching them against my chest, clutching my apology, my excuse, my peace offering. It was like some kind of awful, recurring nightmare, me just hidden there, all ash and eggs and smoke.

After a few hours the cold, weak sunlight was all but gone, and the trickle of weekend shoppers had dispersed, leaving the dim high street deserted, abandoned and empty, bathed in the sparse streetlights sickly orange glows. The moon was beginning to glow by the time the other barista left, a t-shirt pulled roughly on over his uniform, a rucksack hanging off one shoulder. He glanced at me as he left, standing there, looming, smoking, clutching a box of eggs. I glowered back at him, toeing out the stub of my cigarette, grinding it against the pavement, kicking it onto the neat little pile I'd made.

It was only when I heard the scrape of the key in the lock that I stepped out of the shadows, tapping lightly in the glass door. Tweek started slightly, stepping back. He was still dressed in his little green apron, still clutching the door handle, the key poised in the lock, ready to lock it. Ready to lock himself in, ready to lock me out. I gestured at the eggs, waving them about in some ambiguous, pathetic motion. He just looked at me though the glass, distant, quivering, defeated.

After a moment he sighed, averting his eyes. "Enough with the eggs Craig, there's only a week left. The pressure, it's _impossible_. Just… Just go home. We failed, alright? _I _failed. Just _go home_."

He was calling through the glass, his wavering voice muffled, distorted. I bit my lip, clearing my throat. "Nothing's impossible Tweekers. Anything can happen. I mean, fuck, we live in South Park. That's kind of lesson one here. C'mon, let me in? Please?" He made no move to open the door, he just watched me, one hand on the key, the other on the door handle. I sighed, pressing my hand against the glass. My chest ached. My stomach ached. Everything ached. I was tired, I was dead. Completely and absolutely emotionally dead. "C'mon Tweek, please? I need to talk to you. Let me in."

He sighed, and clicked open the door, standing aside to let me in. I thanked him, brushing past him. The lights had been dimmed, and the chairs stacked on top of the table. Tweek was clearly half-way through clearing up. It was pretty eerie, the dimness and the shadows. I wasn't used to being in Harbucks after hours.

"What is it, Craig?"

"I… I…" I looked away, clutching the eggs tighter against my chest. "I figure we're doing this wrong. I think we need to try something else."

"I figure we need to give up. I think it's about time we just _gave up_."

"Fuck Tweek, don't be _stupid_. I'm not giving up."

"Well I am."

I pressed my cold fingers against my temple, rubbing them slightly. I knew what I was doing was stupid, there was something awful in the air, the atmosphere, something awful I was refusing to acknowledge. I was desperate to focus on the eggs, to talk about the eggs. Just so long as I kept bullshitting about the eggs, I could ignore what had happened at the party. I didn't have to deal with that, not when there were still eggs. Not if I focused on the eggs.

"Fuck Tweekers, if you can make a venti three shot skimmed caramel latte frappuccino whatever-the-fuck, you can crack a fucking egg, alright?"

He exhaled, turning his face away. "I don't want to crack eggs today, Craig."

"Just _try it_."

"_No_ Craig. I can't do it! Just, just _stop it_."

"You _can_ do it."

"No, I _can't_."

"Yes, you _can_." I sighed, dropping the box of eggs on the cheap, peeling countertop, following Tweek as he disappeared behind the counter. He'd been half-way through wiping down espresso machine, it was part disassembled so he could clean the components. Metal handles and jugs and tubes and screws were spread across the draining board, soaking in the sink. "Look, Tweek, maybe… Maybe I'm just not the best teacher. Maybe you just need someone better. Maybe you need Token, or Clyde, or someone. You can do it, you just… Maybe you just need someone better."

"Maybe I do." He was pointedly refusing to look at me, his eyes fixed on the counter, on the cloth he was using to wipe it down. He was quivering so violently, not just the usual shakes, but serious, violent tremors. I could still hear Token echoing in my mind, still hear the shit he'd said. Because he was right. It was all my fault. Everything was always all my fault.

"Maybe… Maybe I need to go. Maybe you'll be alright if I just leave you alone. Maybe it's for the best. Maybe… Maybe I need to leave you alone."

"Maybe… Maybe you do."

I just stood there, watching him. He just stood there, watching me, the cloth hanging limply from one quaking hand. There were so many things I needed to tell him, so many things I needed to say, so many apologies, so many admissions of guilt, so much hurt and pain, so much stupidity. I needed to puncture the atmosphere, get it all out. Lance the wound. But I just couldn't bring myself to say it, to mention last night, to talk about the stupid things I'd done. Kissing him, Dylan, Denver. My feelings, my fuck-ups. I needed to say it all, but I just… I just couldn't. I knew I was fucking him up, I knew I was the one hurting him. I knew it was all my fault. Anything I said now, it'd just be a goodbye. It was all too late. It had to be a goodbye.

For a minute we just stood there, silent, starting at each other, bathed in the pathos, the misery, the grief. The dimmed lights, the gleaming metals, cheap linoleum, the glass bottles full of sickly coloured syrups. The flashing lights from the machines waiting to be turned off. This was it, this was the end.

Then Tweek made some enraged, throaty scream, reached across to the coffee maker, and hurled a half-full coffee pot at my chest. I yelped, starting backwards. The glass pot ricochet off my shoulder, drenching my t-shirt in scalding brown liquid, before shattering against the counters behind.

"Fuck Tweek! What the hell? Oh _Christ_, that's fucking _hot_!"

"It's supposed to be fucking hot, it's fucking _coffee_!"

"Oh shit, my _shoulder_!" I gripped a handful of the sodden, torrid fabric, pulling it away from my skin. "Oh fuck, it _burns_!"

"Why do you keep on _doing_ this Craig? Why do you keep on fucking me about?"

"I need a fucking _towel_!"

"One minute you-you're kissing me against Bebe's mom's wardrobe, and it's like-and you're like, _finally_, the next you're kissing like Dylan and-and then you turn up here after hours with fucking _eggs_ just so you can _dump me_ or something. Just… Just tell me what the fuck, Craig, _what the fuck_!"

I was ignoring him, too busy clutching my shoulder, pulling the fabric away from my collarbone, bent double in pain. Part of me wanted to take of my t-shirt, strip it off and douse my shoulder in icy water. The other part remembered the scratches on my back, the marks Dylan had left me with. The other part remembered the shame.

"I can't keep _doing_ this Craig! I have had _enough_ of your fucking _bullshit_!"

"Oh fuck!"

"Jesus Christ man, why can't you just _stop it_? Stop-stop being so _fucking stupid_!"

"Oh, shit Tweekers. That really fucking hurt." I murmured it, still bent double, still facing the floor. The sodden cotton was sticking to me, sticking to my aching skin, my shoulder, my collarbone, my chest. It was still hot, too hot, but no longer burning, no longer scalding. Now it was just wet, heavy, clawing. Claustrophobic.

"You… You _deserved _it."

"I… I know I did Tweek. I'm _sorry_. I'm so, so _sorry_. For everything, I'm just… I'm _sorry_." I was still bent double, still clutching my shoulder, clutching the fabric, still addressing the floor. Not that it really mattered. I'd said that word so many times it'd started to sound like nonsense, empty and meaningless. Always apologising, always doing something that ended with a sorry.

"Just… Just be thankful I _missed_ man. I _was_ aiming for your _face_."

Then it all went a little hazy, because Tweek was walking towards me, he was standing above me. He was placing his hands on my shoulder, my neck, my face, I felt him press my head against his chest, hugging me, arching round me. I felt him kiss me, the warmth, the pressure, he was kissing the back of my neck, my hair, my shoulder. I gasped slightly, because he was kissing me, because he was hugging me, because he was murmuring indecipherable little things to me, something about Dylan, I dunno. None of this felt real. He was hugging me, he was kissing me, and there was something, something inside me, something foreign and wonderful, some brilliant emotion I hadn't felt for a very long time. Some brilliant little thing I'm pretty sure I'd never felt before. Some fragile, delicate little thing that felt totally unreal.

But nothing mattered, because Tweek was pressing my face against his quivering chest in this awkward, bent-double hug thing, because Tweek was kissing my hair, my neck, because I wasn't quite sure what was going on, or what Tweek was trying to do, or if this was really happening, or if _whatever_. I didn't know. And I didn't care, because whatever the fuck was happening, it was brilliant.

Then I felt the reality of it, the reality of everything. And I couldn't, because this was Tweek. This was Tweek, and Tweek was Tweek. He wasn't strong enough. I'd only end up breaking him, I'd only end up destroying him. So I straightened up, I tried to push him back, trying to push him away. He resisted, he was kissing me, making throaty little noises, throaty little no's.

It was breaking my heart. All over again, he was breaking my heart.


	17. Stand Up and Go

It was weird, whatever it was I was trying to do. Part of me was pushing him back, one hand on his chest, pressing him away. Part of me was pulling him closer, one hand on his hip, gripping him, pulling him into me. I was kissing him, all wetness and shaking and violent tongues, I was telling him to stop, telling him no. I was fighting a particularly painful internal battle, head against heart. I knew I couldn't do this, not to him, not to Tweek; I knew he wasn't strong enough, I knew Token was right. I knew I'd only hurt him, break him. I break everything, after all.

But fuck, I wanted it. I wanted it more then I've ever wanted anything before. It hurt, the aching, pounding _want_. And now I was getting it, here he was, giving himself to me, his hands shaking gripping my shoulders, gripping the wet, coffee stained cotton, his shaking form fighting against my grip. Here he was kissing me, all wet insanity, violence, volatile, perfect. Wonderful. It was everything I'd ever wanted, and I couldn't have it. I wasn't allowed to do this. It was everything I'd ever wanted, and it would destroy him. Fuck, it would probably destroy me too. Bright, perfect, and deadly. A solar flare.

Eventually head won. I pressed both hands against his chest and shoved him back, stepping away from him as I did. Glass from the broken coffee pot crunched underfoot, but I ignored it. I ignored everything. I just needed to get away from him before I did something I regretted, something awful. Wonderfully, wonderfully awful.

"Craig-"

"Don't Tweek! You're not strong enough for this. You're too-"

"Don't you fucking dare tell me what I am!" He snapped it out, angry, very angry. Angrier then he'd been in a long, long time. I blinked at him, startled, raising my hands slightly, ready to dodge if he threw another coffee pot. "Craig, I know… I know what I am, yeah? I know I'm _broken_. That isn't news to me. But fuck, you're hardly doing much _better_, you know?"

I frowned, raising the back of my hand to my mouth. I could still taste him, the mix of saliva, sweat, the bitter taste of coffee. It was always coffee, coffee and Tweek. I could taste him, and he tasted better then fake pineapple and cherry lube ever could. He could probably taste me too, he could probably taste the ash, the overwhelming taste of stale ash. Coffee and cigarettes, two things strong enough to overwhelm each other. I exhaled. "What do you mean Tweekers?"

Tweek sighed, pressing a shaking hand against his forehead. He was quivering, not his usual, vaguely violent quakes, but something different, something slight and delicate, like a leaf, poised, caught by the wind. Ready to fall. "Yeah, I'm…" He gestured shakily at himself, delicate hand wavering up and down his frame. "I'm whatever! I'm fucking everything or something, but shit dude, _you're _something else! I mean, you can't seem to go five minutes without fucking something Craig. It's like-like, it's like you need menial, pathetic sex to _breathe _or whatever!"

"I-I-"

"Christ Craig, just stop fighting it will you? I mean… Do you not want me, or something? Is that it? Are you really just doing all this to screw me around or something? Christ, you're like, impossible Craig…" He was standing there, his big brown eyes wide and sad, one hand pressed against his face, his little quivering form bathed in the moonlight, the dim orange glow from the shop lighting. He looked so small, even though he was pretty average. Perhaps a little on the scrawny side, but relatively sturdy nevertheless. Yet he always looks so small, so fragile. So breakable, one wrong move, and he might shatter, fracture across the floor like a luridly painted pottery garden gnome. He always looked as though he needed protecting, like someone needed to wrap him in bubble wrap, cotton wool, place him safely in a box, out of the elements, out of danger.

I just blinked at him. It hurt so much. Everything about this, it all hurt so fucking much. "Of course I want you. But Tweekers, just think of the _pressure_."

"Oh, fuck the _pressure_. Jesus Christ, it's just _sex _Craig, it's just _you_. It's _easy_."

"So's poaching an egg, but you can't seem to do that."

He just groaned, rubbing his face with his fingertips. There was only about a yard separating us, one long step and I could be gripping him, pressing him against me, clutching him. All it would take is one step to bridge the gap, one dangerously easy step. "Christ man, stop making this so _hard_. I'm fucked up, you're fucked up. We might as well be fucked up together."

I swallowed hard. My mouth had gone dry. "But what if I break you?" It came out as a whisper, a croak. My worst fear, announced into the dim glow, the flickering Harbucks lighting. Announced to him.

Tweek just blinked at me. "But what if you don't?"

"But-"

It was Tweek who breached the gap, not me. Two steps, and he was pressing his shaking chest against mine, his hands back on my shoulders, his shoes grinding broken glass against the linoleum. He shut me up by pressing his mouth against mine, forcing his tongue against my teeth, forcing me to swallow whatever it was I'd been about to say.

And I was gripping him, winding my lanky from back round him. I knew I was being selfish, stupid. I knew he needed someone better, someone stronger, someone completely not me. I knew I'd only end up breaking him, destroying him. But I couldn't bring myself to stop. He was everything I'd ever wanted, the shaking, the coffee, the way he was so broken, so erotically broken. I couldn't bring myself to push him away, not again. I was no where near strong enough for that.

I remember forcing him backwards, pulling him out from behind the counter, away from the shattered glass and spilt coffee, the parts of the disassembled expression machine, still soaking in the sink. I broke apart from him as I pushed him down, down onto one of the old, beat up sofas, worn from years of use, fraying and lumpy. I pinned him against the worn seat, kneeling over him, on all fours. It was uncomfortable, the sofa was too small for this, too narrow; the positioning required a lot of bending and balancing, but hey. It was more dignified then the floor, that's for sure. Tweek deserved something more dignified then the floor.

The streetlights were shining though the plate glass window, the moonlight was too, the mixture of white and orange, the dimmed Harbucks lighting, everything was bathed in messy light, dappled with muted glows and shadows. Anyone walking past could have seen us, if they'd looked into the window, squinted though the dimness, but I didn't care. I can only assume Tweek didn't either.

I forced his little green apron up, forced his shirt off, forced him out of his clothes. I was gripping him, kissing him, burying my face against him. And he was gripping me, kissing me, clutching at the hem of my t-shirt, trying to pull it up, trying to pull it off, pawing at the base of the scratch marks, pawing at the cuts on my back. And I just let him, I let him do whatever he wanted, because he was letting me, and life was wonderful. The whole world, the whole universe, everything was brilliant.

All those trips down to Denver, all those guys, Dylan, they were nothing, pointless mistakes, stupid memories fading into darkness. Because nothing could compare to Tweek, to the way he moaned and wriggled and writhed against me, the taste of coffee, the slight squeaking sounds he made, the shaking. The shaking, the perpetual, constant shaking. It was reassuring. It was proof that Tweek was alive, that everything was okay, that the world was just as shaky and fucked up as ever. That nothing was ever going to change. And I never wanted anything to change, not after this, not ever again.

So we did it, soft, violent, forceful, wonderful. Wetness, spit, messy and wonderful. I bit at him, kissed him, clutched him, and he gripped at me, digging his fingernails into my shoulders, pressing his open mouth against my neck. All coffee, saliva and sweat, bar soap and laundry detergent. All Tweek, all wonderful, wonderful Tweek.

He fell asleep after, which was weird. He hardly ever slept, he was always too wired, too hyped up on pills and coffee, too distracted, too stimulated, too God knows what else. But he fell asleep after, curled into a little ball on the sofa, his face buried against my thighs, his mouth inches away from my crotch.

It felt so eerie, like that smothering calm you get after those hurricanes. Dimly I wondered if I should leave, just stand up and go. It'd probably be better for him if I did, if I excused myself from his life, this town, his world, if I let him get on with it, without me looming over his shoulder, fucking him around, acting like an idiot. This wasn't like the kiss, I couldn't just pretend I'd been drunk or something, I couldn't just explain this away. I could always just take my dad's truck and drive, drive away, far away. But that would mean leaving him here, alone and unprotected, and there was no way I could ever do that.

Exhaling, I glanced down at Tweek, carefully running my fingers across a chunk of matted, sticky hair. Something in my chest was thumping, something warm, glowing, something loud and brilliant. Something comforting, reassuring, something that hadn't thumped for a very, very long time. The damage was already done now, there was no way I could leave him, no way I could just walk away from this.

If I break him, I break him. Maybe he'll be the one who breaks me. Who knows? Anything could happen in this fucked up town.

Tweek made some unintelligible little yelp-moan, shifting in his sleep. I just smiled, knotting a strand of his hair round my fingers, pressing my hand reassuringly against his cold face.

* * *

><p>AN – Kudos Craig, it only took you sixteen wangsty chapters! Whoo! Only a chapter or two (I'm not sure how it'll pan outout) left now! Anyhoo, thank you thank you for reading, hope it's okayokay and everything, superduper hero awesome thank you thank you for reviewing, is so lovely lovely and really makes me feel so candyfloss fluffy and warm so thank you thank you. xxx


	18. Fucked Up and Wonderful

I was standing behind him, my hands loosely gripping his wrists, loosely guiding his hands. Pick up an egg, take it to the bowl, one knock, sort and sharp, then open it like a book. Pick up another egg, take it to the bowl, do it again. And again. And again. Egg after egg after egg. I sort of felt sort of sorry for all the chickens. It mustn't be easy, having to squeeze a fucking egg put your behind every day, yet here we were, stealing them away, selling them in shops, just cracking tray after tray of the fucking things, again and again and again, with no intention of eating them, no intention of making paint out of them. No intention of using them at all. It was a kind of a waste.

But a therapeutic waste, nevertheless. It was sort of nice, looming over him like this, guiding his hands, feeling his quivering little back brush against my scrawny chest. All the while, knowing I could. Knowing I had. Last night on the cheap Harbucks sofa, we'd gone too far to ever take it back. All the worry, all the heartache, all the wangst, all the everything, it was too late now. I'd done it, and there was nothing I could do to undo it. If it went wrong, it went wrong. If I broke him, I broke him. It was too late now. It was up to fate, or time, or whatever, to decide.

All I could do was carry on as normal, all we could do was carry on as normal. I woke him up as the sun was beginning to rise, we got dressed, we cleaned up, he shakily reassembled the espresso maker, I quickly wiped down the surfaces, and we left. Just minutes before his dad was due back to open back up, we slunk off. We went about our business as normal, pretending nothing had changed, acting like everything was normal, acting like we hadn't just seriously violated a hundred or so health codes, risked his fathers business, done something really, really fucking stupid. Knowing nothing would ever really be the same again.

But hey, it was alright. Everything was alright. It made me kind of happy, kind of really, really happy, everything was different, but everything was alright. Pulling him down a dark alley on the way home, pressing my face against his neck, inhaling him, running my hands up under his shirt, running my fingertips up his warm, soft skin. Feeling him whimper, moan, writhe against me, feeling him wriggle and quiver, shake, whispering to him, talking dirty, urging him on, then pulling back, pulling back and walking home. Acting like nothing had happened. Acting like this wasn't happening. It alright. It was fucked up, so fucked up, so fucked up but so, so brilliant. So, so wonderfully brilliant. It was more then alright. It was wonderful. Fucked up, fucked up and wonderful.

It felt sort of normal, even though it really, really wasn't. Nothing was normal, nothing would ever be normal again. But hey, this was South Park. Nothing was ever normal here.

We walked back to his house, my hands forced into my pockets, his hands clutched across his chest. Side by side, step by step. I stopped off at the mini-mart, I picked up a tray off eggs, and we walked back to his house. We didn't talk, there was really nothing for us to talk about. Well, there was really a lot of shit we should be talking about, but there was nothing we wanted to talk about. Nothing we needed to talk about. Sometimes words are irrelevant. Sometimes, even when you know you need to sort shit out, clarify things, talk about things, sometimes words just aren't needed. Sometimes it's best to just say nothing, say nothing and just go with it. We just walked, in the rising summer sun, our feet squelching on the melting mess of snow and ice and slush and mud, we just walked in silence.

Tweek started, accidentally gripping an egg to hard, accidentally fracturing it. The mess of yolk and white and shell splattered across the kitchen counter, up his arm, dirtying his shirt. I exhaled, pressing my face into his hair, speaking into the wiry, sticky, lemon-yellow mess. He sort of still smelled like sex, underneath the coffee and the cigarettes and the faded soap, he still smelt like last night. He should probably go take a shower. I should probably take a shower. It was like a mark, the telltale heart, the unmistakable skank of coffee, cigarettes, and sex. "How is it you can make a triple shot venti vanilla whateverthefuck, you can take apart espresso machine and an alarm clock, yet you can't poach a fucking egg? It staggers me Tweekers."

"They're very different things dude. Coffee, machines, I can do them. They just makes me happy. Eggs… Eggs just don't."

"Well… Well what else makes you happy? What makes you feel calm and relaxed? What's your happy place?"

Tweek was shaking slightly, a light pink flush brushing across his cheeks. He was averting his eyes, refusing to look at me. It was fairly adorable. I fought the urge to grab his chin, lift his face up, lift his face to mine. I fought the urge to do something worse to him, strip him again, tug at his hems. Tug at _him_. That was all I really wanted to do. Fuck eggs, fuck school, fuck Denver, fuck everything: I just wanted to furrow under a duvet with him, grip at him, make him whimper, beg. Again and again and again.

Tweek sighed, attempting to scrape the mess of egg off his hand, scrape it into the bowl. "India, I guess. Maybe Tibet. Just somewhere quiet, somewhere warm, with golden palaces and mounds-mounds of fruit, and dogs and peacocks and swans, and streams, and lotus flowers and lily pads. And… And you. India and you, or something."

I swallowed hard, lowering my gaze. My heard thumped painfully against my ribs. He shouldn't be allowed to say shit like that. People just shouldn't be allowed to say shit like that. There should be some law against shit like that. "Well perhaps we should try that then. Perhaps if you just… Just think of India. Don't look at the egg, don't see the egg. The egg isn't important. Look through the egg, and think of your happy place. Just let your hands do the work whilst you think of your happy place. Don't think of the egg, just think of what makes you happy. Think of India."

Tweek furrowed his nose. His hand was still dripping with the egg-mess, dripping yolk and whites against the counter. I sighed, gripping his wrist, pulling it to the sink, turning on the faucet. Tweek just let me, he let me guide him about like a rag doll, like a puppet. "How-how am I supposed to crack an egg whilst thinking of _India_? Fuck, it's hard enough as is!"

"You just do it. You don't think about the egg, you don't see the egg. You just think of India. You ignore the room, and the bowl, and the pressure, and you just do it. You pretend like you're making coffee, or you pretend like you're in India."

I was speaking low, murmuring almost, murmuring it against his hair. I was snaking my hands round him, round his waist, pressing him back against me, murmuring to him, inhaling him. It didn't feel real, not of this really felt real. But it was, it really, really was. And it was a good thing both his patents were out; it was a good thing we were here on our own. It might have been a bit awkward, had anyone suddenly walked in, trying to explain why I was murmuring to Tweek, why I was inching my hand under his shirt, pressing my face against his hair, incising him, reassuring him. People knew what I was like, they knew who I was, what I'd done. There's only so far the whole teaching excuse will go. I don't think either of us was ready to talk about what was happening, not just yet.

"Just think of India. Think of what makes you happy. Ignore the egg, the egg is simply accidental. Just pick it up, just crack it, just think of your happy place. Think of whatever makes you happy." Tweek was breathing erratically, short, shallow breaths. I was inching my hands up his chest, furrowing my face into his hair, gripping him. "Just pick up the egg, just crack it. Just think of India. Think of things that make you happy."

And Tweek Tweak did it. He picked up the egg, he banged it, sort and sharp, against the side of the bowl, and he opened it, like a book. And it was intact, the yolk was whole, there was no shell in the whites, it was almost perfect. He did it. Tweek Tweak cracked an egg.

I swallowed, blinking slightly. I was still looming over him, clutching him, his ear was still inches away from my mouth. I was finding it hard to believe that that had worked, that all he had needed was to be distracted. That he could only crack an egg when he wasn't thinking about cracking an egg, when he wasn't even really looking at the fucking egg. When he wasn't obsessing about it. Wasn't panicking about it.

It was the same technique I'd used in Denver all those times, I'd tried to not think about it, not think about the cherry lube or the pineapple condoms, the guys, the clubs, the sheets and darkened rooms, the mattresses on the floor, I'd just thought about the things that made me happy, better things, the reason I was doing it. I'd thought about Tweek. Brilliant, quivering, damaged little Tweek. So not boring, so not normal. I'd just done it, gotten though it, I'd ignored the reality, I'd focused on the fantasy. Focused in Tweek. It'd worked back then too.

I cleared my throat, pulling away from him, feeling him whimper slightly, quiver and mewl, as I did. "Great Tweekers. See? Really great. Now all we need to is work out how to poach the fucking thing."


	19. Ash and Dregs

I was exhausted come Monday morning. Tweek might be able exist being awake week upon week in a state of coffee induced hyperawakeness, but I needed sleep. There were only so many hours I could stand there watching him attempt to poach eggs before I felt myself beginning to loose it. I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to murder myself, murder him, murder the fucking _cookery teacher_, or murder every single chicken that had ever existed in the history of the entire fucking world, but hey, I wanted to murder something. I hated eggs, I hated eggs with a passion. If I never saw another egg in my entire fucking life it'd be too soon. Fucking awful pointless things.

It was so repetitive it was almost hypnotic. He could crack the eggs now, jerky, hard, hesitant, but he could crack them, his eyes shut, muttering shit about "his happy place" under his breath. But he could do it. Like a terrified, quivering bird, he could do it. It was the poaching shit that was problematic. This stupid pan, full of gently simmering liquid, more vinegar then water, absolutely foul. Again and again he'd pour in the egg. Some of them would actually work, he'd gently, shakily, jerkily tip one in, and it'd congeal up, cook, he'd wait four minutes, then scoop it out. He'd poached it. He'd actually done it.

The majority of them would fall apart, separate, congeal up, cook into these messy, little eggy-strips, like tiny little fractions of omelette, or scrambled eggs that had been cooked way, way too long. The yolks would break, the whites just disintegrate. It'd be a mess, a ruined, depressing mess. Tweek seemed to alternate between muttering about his happy place, his head low, his eyes pretty much closed, to freaking out about the pressure, gripping me, my arms, my chest, his eyes wide, blown, circled in darkness, aching, aching darkness. Vulnerable, terrified. Wonderful, beautiful. And there was nothing I could do, nothing except make cup after cup of coffee, reassure him again and again, pet him, his cheek, his tacky, sticky mess of a hair, his arms, his back. Pet him, reassure him, and chain-smoke. Cigarette after cigarette, on the pack porch, standing in the ever lightening darkness, watching dawn break, watching the sun rise from the wrong side, my arms crossed across my chest as I listened to the bangs and yelps echoing from his partially open kitchen door.

Before I knew it, we were out of time. I was checking my watch, pulling him away, away from the stove, away from the eggs, the vinegar, the pan and spoons and fish-slice, the practice, the reassurance. His home. Pulling him towards school, still wearing the clothes we'd been wearing all fucking day, all fucking night, clothes that smelled like vinegar and desperation, coffee and cigarettes, and still, underneath the soap, the shower, the time, a little bit like sex.

It was like a dream, trying to take in the lessons, trying to listen to what people were saying. Paying attention to the shit Clyde was spouting, or whatever tedious point Token was making, it was like trying to think though a coma. One lesson, then the second. Words, numbers, gossip, whatever. It went straight over me. I was too busy checking the time, gripping Tweek's hand, out of sight, under the desk. Reassuring him, telling him we'd be fine. Lying to him. Then before I knew it, he was walking down the corridor, heading towards the cookery room, and I was walking in the opposite direction, with no idea about anything really.

We had religious studies. Well, the ones of us who'd wanted to take an easy option had religious studies. Everyone else had business class, or woodwork, or sewing, or economics, or art, or whatever. I didn't know. Today, for some reason, she never decided to explain why to us, the teacher had projected an image of the Ecstasy of St. Theresa against the wall. We were supposed to be learning about the reformation or whatever, something to do with Catholics. She'd given us a worksheet to do, but none of us seemed particularly keen on doing it. Hell, she didn't seem particularly keen on us doing it. She didn't care what we were doing, just so long as whatever it was we were doing, we were relatively quiet about it. She was too busy reading some shitty Mills and Boon novel, too busy chewing aimlessly on the end of a pencil to actually bother teaching us anything.

I exhaled, tapping my pen against my unfilled sheet of paper, staring up at the clock. I was waiting, waiting for when it would be time. When it would be time for Tweek to attempt to poach the egg. I'd told him to wait. I'd told him I'd be there. I'd always be there.

Across the desk, Stan frowned, tilting his head, staring up at the projection, the distorted, blown up image. His sheet was half-full, scrappy, one word answers. He bit his lip. "That angel thing, the one with the arrow, it sort of looks a bit like Kyle, don't you think?"

Next to me, Kenny narrowed his eyes, scoffing, clutching his arms across his chest. He was in a foul mood today. It was a rare occurrence, but I really couldn't be bothered to ask why. Not with Tweek out there, clutching an egg. Waiting.

"Oh, _God_, you two are so fucking _gay_!"

"Hey! Kenny it _does_!"

Kenny frowned, glaring up at the image. He hadn't even attempted his worksheet either. He'd spent the lesson moodily brooding out a window. "No I _doesn't_! The nose is all wrong. I'm pretty sure Kyle would kill his own mother for a nose like that. Fuck, I'm pretty sure Kyle would kill _you_ for a nose like that!"

Bebe frowned, glancing up from her sheet. She'd been steadily working though it, neat little answer after neat little answer. "I thought that was supposed to be a girl…"

Stan rolled his eyes. "What? Dude, look at the fucking nipple! It's a _man_."

"Yeah, but look at the hips. Those are womanly hips."

Kenny snorted. "No, I think he's just fat,

Stan deadpanned a frown. "It's the cloth."

"I don't think it is."

"Bernini's depiction of the messenger of _God_ is not _fat_!

I frowned, crossing my hands across my chest, mirroring Kenny's pose. I was trying to ignore their conversations, block out the pointless, menial chatter. It'd been going on all day, and I had a headache, a mixture of the exhaustion, the physical tiredness, and the worry, the worry about Tweek, the worry about the fucking eggs. The worry about what was going to happen. The worry about everything.

But nevertheless, Stan was wrong. That angel was definitely fat, and it really didn't look a thing like Kyle. I blinked at the projection, gesturing pathetically towards it. "Except no, he's sort of fat, yeah. Those are defiantly some child bearing hips."

Kenny smirked across the desk, blinking up at Stan. "I'm going to tell Kyle that. I'm going to tell him you compared him to a fat Catholic idol that may or may not be a woman. He'll be _thrilled_."

Stan exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Go to hell, Kenny. I just said it _looked like a bit like him_."

"He's going to be _pissed_ at you!"

"Oh, _shut up_ Kenny! No he won't!"

I checked the clock again. It was about to roll over onto the half-hour. It was about to be time. I put my hand up, whistling for attention. The teacher called on me, lowering her book so she could glare over the cover. I called her a bitch. She told me to leave the classroom. So I did.

Tweek's room was on the other side of the school. I stalked there, my hands in my pockets, refusing to make eye contact with anyone I passed. Refusing to acknowledge anyone. All of the staff just thought I'd been sent to the counselor again or something, they didn't even bother to ask. All of the other students were just too scared, too desperate to keep their eyes low, their gaze averted. Too desperate to act like they didn't see me, to hope I didn't see them. I looked too angry to engage. Enrage.

Tweek was standing there, nervously fidgeting with his egg, murmuring to himself. His own little station, his little pan, already on the cooker, already simmering away. Probably already reeking of vinegar. His little eggs, his tacky school apron, his beat-up and abused equipment. He was waiting for me. Muttering to himself, fretting. The pressure, the whatever. He was just waiting for me.

I walked up to the door, carefully checking that his teacher had her back turned, that she couldn't see me, before putting two fingers on the glass, attempting to smile at him, attempting to encourage him. Tweek just looked at me for a while, a few seconds, a minute, I didn't know, before nodding, gripping his egg, bringing it down hard and fast on the side of the glass, just like I'd told him too.

And I stood there, behind a sheet of cheap glass, behind a chipping wooden door, I stood there and watched Tweek Tweak poach an egg. All the while Tweak Tweek kept his eyes glued to mine, kept his gaze fixed on me, he moved his hands, he broke his egg, he murmured something, something silent, something about his happy place or whatever. Something about India. And he poached it. Tweek Tweek poached an egg.

And no, it wasn't perfect. It was far, far from perfect. It'd been poured in too fast, it looked a bit floppy, it looked like a slimy fried egg. A slimy fried egg that, as I later learnt, had absolutely reeked of vinegar. Mrs. Cregg made her round, she started at it, she narrowed her eyes at it, she poked it, she cut it open, she crossed her shapeless arms and refused to taste it. But that didn't matter, because the yolk was in tact and still viscous, the white was all solidified, it was cooked. Absolutely disgusting, but cooked. Tweek Tweak had poached an egg.

She made some sweeping, aloof gesture, and Tweek smiled. Then she left him, she walked away, walked to a different station, she attempted to stop Power's mayonnaise from splitting, barking orders at her, telling her to whisk harder, gesturing to her, flapping her arms about like some ugly, bald rooster. Dim and pointless, just a glorified housewife.

But fuck that, because Tweek was smiling. Smiling at the door, smiling at me. Yeah, he was quivering like a leaf, shaking, terrified. He was running his hands through his hair, murmuring about the pressure, but it didn't matter, because he'd done it. He'd poached his egg. He'd poached his fucking egg.

I slid down the wall, covering my face with my hands, grinning through my fingertips. Grinning like an idiot. I was exhausted, I could barely keep myself awake, the world around me seemed muted and pointless, spinning, burry colours, echoing sounds. This was fucked up, this was so, so fucked up, everything about this, about us, me, him, this town, my life, the universe. He shouldn't be able to poach an egg, I shouldn't be allowed to fuck him. Yet he did, and I did, and there was really nothing anyone could do to stop us. It was over now, all said and done. He was going to pass, progress into our final year. And I was going to fuck him, keep on fucking him, just like I'd fucked him on the cheap Harbucks furniture, just like I'd fuck him there again, and again, and again. I'd fuck him 'till that sofa broke. He was mine; I really had no intention of ever, ever letting him go.

I was laughing now, my shoulders shaking, breathy, nearly silent. I was happy, relieved, and still exhausted. Still, so, so exhausted. Yes, we'll probably make the worst couple ever. He's pure dysfunction inside and out, twitching, tweeks, coffee, I'm, well, I'm fucking _insane_ or whatever. Yes, one day, someday, one of us is going to get hurt. Someday I probably will end up breaking him. Someday he'll break me. Someday all of this will be over, all of this ended, in the past, history. Someday all of us will be dead, someday the world will burn. Someday, it'll have all been for nothing, pointless, stupid. Memories and regent, the bitter taste of coffee, the pleasure, the ash and dregs. One day that taste that'll seem worse then pineapple condoms and cherry lube. One day it'll break my heart.

But for now, none of that matters, because I love him. And for the time being, he loves me. And nothing matters, because we go together, we go together… We go together like coffee and cigarettes.

* * *

><p>And voila, it's finished! My first Creek story. I hope you enjoyed it, hope you liked the ending! Tweek poached his egg, Craig got his man, everything went better as expected, hope it didn't let you down! Anyhoo, thank you thank you too all those who stuck with it, and read it 'till the end, and thank you thank you too all those who favourited, is lovely so thank you. A super duper awesome love love thank you thank you for reviewing, for leaving the lovely reviews. I swear, they keep me driven and determined, so thank you soso muches for taking the time to leave one, is absolute awsomesauces and you're absolute awesomesauces. Loves loves loves xxx<p>

I'm not sure when I'll be back, or with what. But hey, that's part of the fun in life!


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